


Single-Use Lives

by hanap



Series: On Ricochets [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Feels, Developing Relationship, Every meet-cute I ever wanted, Explicit Sexual Content, Groundhog Day, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, My brain just wanted a million human AUs, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Reincarnation, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 80,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Things go horribly wrong when it turns out Agnes Nutter's prophecy isn't what Crowley and Aziraphale thought it would be. They were expecting to be destroyed. Instead, Heaven and Hell strip them of their immortality and their memories of each other - but Heaven and Hell don't know that they've switched bodies.Now human, Crowley and Aziraphale run into each other on Earth for the first time - again - and again - and again. It doesn't take them long to figure out that there is something very strange going on.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: On Ricochets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954087
Comments: 422
Kudos: 264





	1. A Metaphor for Forgetting

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I've had this weird reincarnation idea sitting in my head (and in my drafts) for a while now, and I really need to get it out before it eats me alive. This is the first time I've actually attempted to properly plot out a multi-chapter fic, so I hope you like it! 
> 
> I've already got the next few chapters ready for uploading! Chapter count may change. The tags of this fic will be updated as I go along to avoid spoilers. Rating will go up in later chapters.

“The trial of the demon Crowley is in session,” the little usher announced, banging a staff on the ground.

From the dimly lit hallway, Aziraphale could already hear the distinct buzz of Beelzebub’s voice calling for him as he was led to stand before the dais. Beelzebub was slouched over in a throne in the centre of the room, flanked on either side by Hastur and Dagon.

“Hey, guys.” Aziraphale did his best to imitate Crowley’s usual bravado, feeling more confident now that he’d spotted the gleaming white bathtub pushed next to the dirty glass of the window where a crowd of Hell’s demons stood watching and jeering loudly. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Not for you, it won’t be.” Hastur’s mouth split into a shark-like grin.

Beelzebub was eyeing Aziraphale with an unreadable expression on their face. He tried to keep his face blank, cool and composed the way Crowley always was even under pressure. Surreptitiously, he took a deep breath to calm himself, repeating to himself the words of Agnes Nutter's final prophecy. _Choose your faces wisely._

“That will be all,” Beelzebub said abruptly, snapping their fingers with a disdainful look.

Aziraphale turned to see a thin sheet of black granite coming down slowly from the ceiling, sliding shut over the glass window. As it settled with a grinding sound against the stone floor, the din from the protesting crowd was cut off suddenly, leaving the room in total silence. There was a second snap, and this time, the bathtub disappeared into the ether.

Heart pounding wildly, Aziraphale turned to look at Beelzebub, who now looked almost amused. For the first time, Aziraphale began to feel the stirrings of fear.

“Let’s get started, then,” Beelzebub said, a smirk spreading across their face.

\--

“So glad you could join us!” Gabriel clapped a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“You could have just sent a message,” Crowley said with an attempt at Aziraphale’s usual politeness, forcing the corners of his lips upward.

“Call it what it was – an extraordinary rendition.”

Gabriel looked Crowley over with that enormous smile of his, glittering and hard as diamond.

“Shall we?” Gabriel said to Uriel and Sandalphon, gesturing grandly at Crowley. “Michael should be back shortly.”

Uriel and Sandalphon moved to stand beside him, Uriel’s eyes hard, Sandalphon baring his teeth at him, showing off a glint of gold in his teeth. Gabriel still stood smiling at Crowley, but now, there was something different in his gaze, something distinctly predatory.

“I bet you didn’t see this one coming.”

Crowley heard footsteps coming up behind him, and Gabriel focused on the newcomer with his enormous smile. _Time to play with fire_ , Crowley thought, hiding the smirk that was threatening to appear on his face.

“Michael! Everything sorted out with our… collaborators, then?”

“Collaborators?” Crowley echoed with disbelief. Were they talking about… _Hell?_

“Yes.” Michael’s voice echoed with a quiet triumph as they walked past Crowley with a glance that froze the blood in his veins. “Everything’s been coordinated.”

For some reason, Crowley felt his stomach twist in panic.

\--

“What’s it going to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?” Aziraphale asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. _Trust the prophecy,_ he thought to himself desperately.

“Even worse,” Hastur gloated, that frightening grin still on his face.

“We’re letting the punishment fit the crime.”

Beelzebub rose from their seat, and though they were slight in build, Aziraphale felt the depth of the demonic power emanating from them, crackling like electricity in the air, and when they spoke, their words reverberated through the room, the underlying buzz suddenly terrifying, a voice that carried with it images of the worst horrors of Hell, all burning and screams and agony, the stench of choking smoke and sulphur suddenly filling his lungs.

“Demon Crowley. You are hereby sentenced –”

\--

“– to lose your immortality and live as a human for committing an act of treason of conspiring with a demon and the Son of Satan, interfering with the Divine Plan and resulting in the intentional aversion of Armageddon.”

Michael looked up from the glowing scroll they read, a thoroughly satisfied look on her face as she rolled up the scroll neatly.

 _Human?_ Crowley was struggling not to panic, trying not to let the fear show on Aziraphale’s face. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Something had gone terribly wrong. _The prophecy,_ he thought frantically. _Agnes couldn’t have been mistaken._

“A – are you quite certain that’s the appropriate sanction, Gabriel?” Crowley forced out. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?”

“What could be more appropriate?” Gabriel asked, beaming at him, his smile never reaching his eyes. “If those humans were so important to you, might as well become one yourself.”

\--

“Come on, you guys,” Aziraphale spoke in Crowley’s casual drawl, though his knees were trembling. “How would that even work? It’s impossible.”

Beelzebub smiled suddenly, descending the steps of the dais with frightening purpose. Aziraphale could feel their power pushing him against his will into the centre of the room, forcing him down on his knees. He was powerless to even tear his gaze away from their depthless blue eyes. He could hear Hastur revelling with laughter as though from very far away.

Revulsion and fear coursed through Aziraphale’s veins, his blood pounding in his ears as Beelzebub towered above him. He tried to stand, but Crowley’s body didn’t have the angelic strength that his corporation did.

“This is what’s going to happen, _Crawly,_ ” they said softly, the buzz of their voice suddenly painful in Aziraphale’s ears. “In order to take your immortality from you, we will take the one thing that defines who you are. Without it, you would no longer be you.”

\--

“Do you know what that is?”

Gabriel’s grin grew impossibly wider, clearly enjoying the sight of Crowley kneeling on the floor before him. His angelic power was choking Crowley, holding him tightly by the throat, and not even the strength of a principality’s corporation could get him back on his feet.

“Answer me.”

Crowley cried out as a divine force pushed him down. He fell forward, the golden signet ring on his hand clinking hard against the cold white tile. His eyes were streaming, barely able to breathe with the intensity of it, but he would be damned twice over before he let them see how afraid he truly was. With the last of his strength he pushed himself up enough to look Gabriel in the eye.

“You can’t do it,” Crowley snarled. “It’s impossible.”

“Oh, but we can,” Michael said, the triumphant look still on their face as they appeared by Gabriel’s shoulder. “We know exactly how you were seduced into becoming a traitor, Aziraphale. You and your _demon_.”

A pile of printed images was thrown on the floor before Crowley. His eyes widened with fear as he took in the photos – the day he and Aziraphale had met at the Globe, that time he had first asked Aziraphale for holy water, and there was even a photo from the day they had first met up to discuss their plans for Armageddon.

 _No, please,_ he thought, stricken with fear. _Not Aziraphale._

\--

“I was tempting him, Lord Beelzebub, that’s all it was,” Aziraphale choked out, gasping as the tendrils of demonic power wound themselves around Crowley’s corporation, binding him so tightly he was struggling for air.

“You dare lie to the Prince of Hell?” Beelzebub said softly, their voice taking on a truly frightening quality, as though a multitude of demonic voices spoke from their mouth. “There is no hiding from us. We have seen it for ourselves. Your little infatuation with that pathetic excuse for an angel has caused your doom.”

A strange pattern of sigils glowed with an unholy red light, weaving themselves together, encasing Aziraphale in a sphere of formidable demonic energy. He found that suddenly he could no longer speak, as though the burning red symbols had bound his mouth shut. _Crowley,_ he thought feverishly. _Please, God, please let him be safe. I’ll give everything I have to give. Take it all from me, as long as he won’t be hurt._

“We knew you were going native, but we would have never dreamed that it would have gotten this far.” Hastur watched him hungrily, his menacing black eyes fixed on Aziraphale.

“Enough. This has gone on for far too long.” Beelzebub’s voice thundered, their voice echoing from every direction of the room, pressing against Aziraphale’s eardrums so loudly that it hurt. “Cursed shall you be with mortality, to live among humans with your memories intact… save for your memories of your _cherished_ principality.”

\--

The divine light glowed around Crowley, and it _burned._ He cried out with the agony of it, no longer knowing how long he had been kneeling, the floor cold against his legs despite the heat of the angelic energy pulsing around him. If he had not been in Aziraphale’s corporation, he would have been incinerated by now.

“I’m sure you’ll love being a human,” Gabriel said mockingly, Sandalphon snickering behind him where he and Uriel stood watching. “After all, you’ve already had so much practice.”

“Take one last moment to think about your beloved demon, then. It will be the last time you ever will,” Michael spoke with finality.

Their words struck Crowley like a lightning bolt, even through the near-unendurable torment of Gabriel’s power razing through him. Crowley laughed and laughed, incoherent with pain but overflowing with joy.

“Take him from me, then!” Crowley shouted in Aziraphale’s voice, hoarse now from crying out. “Take all of him, I dare you!”

 _They don’t know. They don’t know it’s me,_ he thought, exultant with the revelation of it. _I don’t care if I lose myself, as long as I get to keep you. I’ll find you, angel. Wait for me._

Suddenly, Crowley was plunged into darkness, and he knew no more.

* * *

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

Aziraphale jolted awake at the sound of knocking on the door. Disoriented, he blinked for a moment as the pile of unchecked essays that lay on his desk came into focus. He rubbed at his face with his hand before getting up to open the door.

“Professor Fell, sorry to bother you.”

One of the teaching assistants of the English department – she was obviously new, because she stared at Aziraphale just a moment too long before she cleared her throat, dropping her eyes.

“There are some students from your classical Greek lit class outside wondering if they might get your feedback on their papers.”

“They’re going to have to come back tomorrow. Er… Something came up, I’m afraid.”

She nodded and excused herself, shutting the door quietly behind her. Aziraphale sighed, slightly put out that he’d forgotten to put his sunglasses on before opening the door. He yawned behind his hand. He couldn’t quite break the habit of staying up into the wee hours of the morning just reading. Maybe he should take a break for a minute, clear his head.

The university had a lovely park in the middle of the campus where students often went to relax in between classes. The weather was fairly warm for a fall afternoon, the sun bright enough for him to wear his sunglasses without getting stared at. There was a particular area of the park that had been sectioned off as an ornamental garden. Aziraphale loved it because there were always flowers in bloom – at this time of year, large beds of chrysanthemums abounded, pink and orange and yellow and red setting the garden ablaze.

He headed for his favourite bench but stopped short to find there was already a stranger sitting there. How odd, he thought. Other people rarely ventured into this part of the garden.

The man looked up, and even through the dark tint of Aziraphale’s sunglasses, he noticed that the man’s eyes were a lovely light colour, the hue of them shifting in the light of the sun.

“What?” The man asked, brow furrowed. “Are you going to sit down, or are you going to stand there staring at me?”

Aziraphale flushed. He quickly moved to sit down beside the man, who had obligingly straightened himself up just the smallest bit to make room for Aziraphale.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “Just that I don’t see many people in this part of the garden, you see.”

“Am I squatting on your bench, then?” The man smirked, looking sidelong at Aziraphale.

“No! Not at all. Of course, this is a public space. You’re free to sit anywhere you like.” Aziraphale trailed off, embarrassed at himself for rambling.

The man snorted and casually ran a hand through the white-blonde curls on his head. He was dressed all in black despite the warmth of the day. Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of his eye, inexplicably curious.

“You’re staring again.”

Aziraphale started at his words before scowling.

“How could you even tell? I’m wearing sunglasses.”

“So you _were_ staring at me,” the man drawled, the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips.

“I was not!” Aziraphale protested. “That is, erm. You seem quite familiar. Have we met before?”

“Well, that’s not much of a line, is it? You could flirt a little better than that.”

Aziraphale stared at him open-mouthed. The _nerve_ of a complete stranger to be in his favourite spot, and now to be making fun of him like this was unbelievable. He had half a mind to get up and walk away.

“Hey, come on. I was only joking.” His face relaxed into an easy expression. “I’m Crowley. Anthony J., but just call me Crowley.”

“Fell. I’m a senior professor at the English department.”

“Senior professor, huh?” Crowley gazed at him inquisitively.

“Yes. Do you teach here as well?”

Aziraphale almost wanted to take his sunglasses off to see the exact colour of Crowley’s eyes. There was something about Crowley that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something almost familiar.

“Yep. Doubt you’ve seen me around, though. I’m just a guest lecturer. Zoology department.”

“Oh?” That piqued Aziraphale’s interest. He didn’t know many people in the zoology department. “What do you teach?”

“I’m a herpetologist. Specialise in snakes, mostly.”

“Are you _quite_ sure we haven’t met before?”

“Mm. I think I would have remembered meeting you, Professor Fell.” There was something about the curve of Crowley’s mouth that made the heat creep back up Aziraphale’s face.

“I – that is –”

“How about I tempt you to a spot of lunch tomorrow? Then you can figure out whether you really know me or not.”

Goodness, Aziraphale was flustered. He’d only meant to take a walk, not get asked out on a _date_. Not that this was a date. It was just a lunch between colleagues. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “I have a morning lecture until 11:30, but I’m free after that.”

“Sounds good.” Crowley gazed at him and smirked. “I’ll swing by the English department for you at around noon, then.”

“Oh, dear. That really won’t be necessary.” He could already hear the other professors teasing him about finally making time to go on a date for once. “I can meet you here instead.”

“Whatever you like, angel.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped around to stare at Crowley, whose face had suddenly turned redder than the chrysanthemums.

“I – er, I dunno where that came from. Sorry. Erm.”

Something about seeing Crowley rattled broke the tension for Aziraphale, and he laughed.

“You’ll find that I am most certainly no angel, but that’s alright,” Aziraphale said with a smile, and for some reason, he meant it wholeheartedly. He rose to his feet, feeling rather sorry that he needed to leave. “I’ve got a lecture in half an hour, but I’ll see you here tomorrow at noon?”

Crowley looked up at him and nodded, his cheeks still slightly flushed. Aziraphale wished he could understand why something about Crowley made him feel so… comfortable. He had few friends even in his own department, and here he was now joking with a man he’d just met like they’d known each other for years.

“See you tomorrow.” Crowley’s mouth curved into a real smile.

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 1:58 AM**

Aziraphale nearly cursed when he looked up at the time. _So much for going to bed earlier,_ he chided himself, shutting the copy of _The Odyssey_ in the original Greek that he had been translating.

He got up and walked to his bathroom to freshen up before heading to bed. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of the clothes he had been wearing to school that day. Slowly, he tugged his bow tie out of its knot and shrugged out of his waistcoat. He stood staring at himself in the mirror for a moment – his red hair standing up in odd directions, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced now that he had been sleeping later and later.

The light in the bathroom seemed to flicker. Aziraphale looked up at the light bulb on the ceiling for a moment, puzzled, wondering if the power was about to go out, but nothing happened. When he glanced back at his reflection, he stepped back reflexively from the mirror in disbelief.

His eyes, already an unusually light brown, were suddenly a yellow so bright they were almost glowing, the pupils reduced to sharp vertical slits. He shivered at the sight and touched his face, gazing at himself in the mirror. The shock quickly gave way to a powerful wave of emotion, his heart tightening with the intensity of it. Oddly enough, it didn’t feel like fear at all. It filled him with an almost tangible heat, a glow warming him from the inside out. He might even say it felt very much like – 

A sharp jolt of pain lanced through his head abruptly, and he winced, leaning against the sink for support as it receded. When he raised his eyes to the image in the mirror, he felt the surprise run through his body like an electric shock. In the mirror stared back a man with eyes like the sea, blues and greens and greys swirled together, a mop of white-blonde hair on his head, eyes wide and looking as astonished as he felt. Oddly enough, though his heart was pounding, he felt nothing but a sense of wonder.

“Crowley?” He whispered, his fingertips reaching toward the mirror.

The clock set to Aziraphale’s 2:00 AM bedtime started chiming on his desk, and the light on the ceiling flickered and went out.

* * *

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

The “CLOSED” sign in the little bakery was hung up a little earlier today. Aziraphale was working on a new recipe for Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte – he had been experimenting with a new recipe, and it was taking him some time to get the balance of flavours right. He had sent his employees home early, given them the afternoon off. He hummed contentedly as he spooned some freshly whipped cream into a piping bag, a chocolate cake standing on a cooling rack ready for decorating.

The chimes of the bakery’s front door rang, and Aziraphale recognised the sound of the door’s hinges squeaking as it shut loudly. Oh dear, he must have forgotten to lock the door. He put the piping bag down on the counter.

“I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed,” Aziraphale called to the unwary customer who’d wandered in as he walked briskly to the bakery’s selling area, which also held two tiny tables for customers.

The customer turned around, and Aziraphale froze where he stood, a strange tugging in his stomach to see the man who had just entered. Auburn hair lay in soft ringlets against his shoulders, pulled half-up into a small bun. A pair of dark glasses hid his eyes from view.

Aziraphale shook his head minutely, trying to clear it. Surely, he would have remembered meeting such a man before.

“I was in the area,” the stranger ventured, his low voice rasping slightly. “Wondered if I could maybe… grab a cup of coffee. But if you’re closed, I can go somewhere else.”

“No.”

Aziraphale flushed, embarrassed at how quickly the dissent had left his lips. He cleared his throat.

“That is… I can spare a coffee. I’m all sold out of pastries for the day, though.”

“That’s fine.” The man shrugged. “I don’t eat much, anyway.”

That certainly seemed true, Aziraphale thought – the man was rail-thin and clad in black from head to toe, making him seem taller than he was.

“Have a seat, then,” Aziraphale said, gesturing at the tiny tables. “How do you want your coffee?”

“Just black will do.”

Aziraphale nodded and retreated to his kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil. His heart was beating curiously fast. He felt nervous, though he couldn’t make sense of it. Why should a customer make him nervous when he interacted with so many of them on a daily basis?

He made the coffee mechanically, pouring hot water slowly through a filter filled with freshly ground coffee beans with a practiced hand, waiting for the coffee to drip into the mug until it was full. When it had finished, he placed the mug carefully on a tray and lifted it, only to nearly collide with the man he was about to serve it to.

“Oi!” The man reached out quickly, stabilised the tray with a firm hand. “How about being a little more careful?

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Aziraphale sputtered in shock. The man’s other hand was holding him securely by his arm, keeping him steady, his hand so warm it was searing through Aziraphale’s rolled-up shirt sleeve.

“There’s no one else around,” he said with a shrug. “Thought you might use the company.”

Aziraphale absolutely did not want to dwell on the moment of disappointment when the man at last let go of his arm.

“I suppose…” Aziraphale laid the tray down on the counter reluctantly, looking at the man with a suspicious glance as he took the mug and lifted it to his lips, not even waiting for it to cool before taking a sip.

“Not bad,” the man said with some surprise.

“I’ll have you know this is a fairly successful bakery.” Aziraphale sniffed. “Of course people want good coffee to go with their breakfast.”

“Won’t argue with that,” the man said. “Go on, then. I don’t want to bother you.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to point out that he was already bothering him just by being in the kitchen. He sighed and decided to continue with icing the cake, resolutely ignoring his presence as he carefully spread the whipped cream over each layer of chocolate cake, dotting the cream with cherries soaked in a sauce of cherry liqueur, before placing another layer of chocolate cake on top and doing it all over again.

It was quite soothing, really. Aziraphale had quite forgotten that the man was still there by the time he picked up his piping bag to decorate the top of the cake.

“So do you own this place?” The man asked suddenly.

Aziraphale nearly dropped the piping bag.

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “I’ve had the bakery open for the past five years or so.”

The man made a noise of assent.

“Quite the institution around here, then.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Aziraphale picked up the piping bag and carefully started piping rosettes of whipped cream atop the iced cake, concentrating as he did so. When he finished, he laid the piping bag down with a sigh.

“Nearly there now,” he said, inspecting the whipped cream with a critical eye.

“Looks like it, yeah.”

A handful of cherries delicately placed in the middle of each rosette finished off the top of the cake. Aziraphale took out a block of fine chocolate, cold and hard from being stored in the refrigerator, and slowly began grating long strips of chocolate.

“What’s that for?”

“This?” Aziraphale considered the question. “Well, nothing really, I suppose. Just a little something extra to make the cake look pretty.”

“Hmph.”

Carefully, Aziraphale covered the sides of the cake with the delicate chocolate strips. Combined with the cherry-dotted rosettes on top, the effect was gorgeous. Aziraphale smiled with delight at his own handiwork.

“All done,” he said, turning to the man and beaming at him.

“Mm. Colour me impressed.”

Aziraphale was startled when the man approached him, closer and closer until he was standing just a few inches from Aziraphale.

W – what is it?” Aziraphale stammered.

“You’ve got a little bit right here,” he answered, his hand lifted as though he was about to touch Aziraphale’s cheek. But at the last moment he pulled away, making the gesture on his own face instead.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, his face burning. He lifted his hand and brushed his forefinger across his cheek, mirroring the man’s action, coming away with a small smear of whipped cream on his finger.

“There you go.”

“Did I get all of it?” Aziraphale asked, rubbing at his face with his thumb.

“Yeah, you did.”

Aziraphale stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking on it to get the icing off, quite forgetting himself. He looked up to find the man staring at him with his lips parted, a slight flush on his prominent cheekbones. He quickly looked away from Aziraphale, the flush on his cheeks darkening.

What a peculiar situation this was, Aziraphale thought, his own face feeling warm. And yet, somehow it seemed quite mundane, as though this was something he did every day – entertained random strangers in his kitchen while he iced cakes.

Well, not just any stranger – _this_ stranger in particular, who for some reason didn’t feel strange to him at all.

“Since you’ve been in my kitchen for the past half hour, are you going to tell me your name?”

“Ah. Er, you can call me Crowley.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale thought for a moment. “Is that a first name or a last name?”

“Last. Doesn’t matter what my first name is. Just call me that.”

“As you like.”

Aziraphale opened a drawer, extracting a large bread knife and running it under hot water in the sink before drying it on a towel. He looked up at Crowley, whose eyebrows were raised, eyeing the knife with some alarm.

“Well then, Crowley. How about doing a taste test for this cake?”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 1:46 AM**

Aziraphale had no idea how the day had gone from having a stranger entering the bakery while it was closed to having dinner and drinks with said stranger – to the point that they had effectively spent nearly twelve entire hours with each other.

Crowley had eaten precisely three bites of the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte and pronounced it delicious with a surprised look, though he refused to eat any more than that while hurriedly assuring Aziraphale that he had never been much for sweets. Aziraphale had comforted himself by eating a quarter of the cake on his own while Crowley made coffee for him and watched him eat with the ghost of a smile on his face.

They had ordered Chinese takeout a few hours ago from the restaurant down the block run by a young couple who knew Aziraphale’s exact order by heart – fried rice with shrimp, sweet and sour fish, braised beef with broccoli. An extra order of mapo tofu at Crowley’s request, because he was craving for something spicy. They’d been surprised at someone else placing Aziraphale’s order, because it had never happened before, and the wife herself had dropped off the food with a small wink at Aziraphale as he blushed to the roots of his hair.

An assortment of wine bottles stood on the table, some of them scattered on the floor after they ran out of room. Really, the tables were entirely too small, perhaps he should consider replacing them. The lights too, maybe, he thought drowsily. One of the bulbs overhead was blinking uncertainly; another had gone out entirely.

He stared at Crowley for a moment, wondering what this strange feeling in his chest was. It felt like relief. Like coming home at the end of a long day. Like recognition.

“Crowley.”

“Mm?” Crowley was listing slightly to the left, his words slurring together.

“Do you ever feel sometimes that some things happen, and you don’t understand them?”

“What’re you on about?”

“I don’t know how to explain it.” Aziraphale tried to gather his thoughts together, sodden with wine as they were. “Like there’s a part of you that’s missing, but you don’t know what it is.”

“Hm. I guess.” Crowley’s voice came out sounding strangely like a hiss. “Didn’t know what I was missing until it nearly spilled a cup of coffee on me.”

Aziraphale’s heart was beating wildly. He looked up and noticed for the first time Crowley’s eyes – he’d discarded his dark glasses sometime in the past hour, and they lay on the table between them amidst the bottles of wine. His eyes were a shade of brown so light they were nearly amber, glowing like liquid fire in the dim yellow light of the bakery.

The sight of Crowley’s eyes triggered something in Aziraphale’s mind, like the echo of a half-remembered memory, or a fleeting recollection of a dream – gone before he could grasp it, slipping out of his reach into nothingness. He studied Crowley for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, his mind slow and fuzzy with wine. What was it he was thinking of just now? He couldn’t quite remember. There was a throbbing ache in the back of his head.

Crowley got up slowly, staggering from the liquor, and knelt on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. His mouth had gone quite dry. His mind struggled to comprehend what was happening – he couldn’t understand what was going on, and yet it seemed to make perfect sense, all at the same time.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, his voice a murmur.

His eyes roved over Crowley’s face, memorising every last detail of it – the disdainfully cocked eyebrow, the lines of his face so sharply sculpted, the aquiline cut of his nose, the beautiful eyes that were so captivating in the light, willing himself to remember this moment when he awoke in the morning.

“I might be drunk.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale laughed. “I do agree.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you,” Aziraphale whispered, longing to reach out and run his fingers through Crowley’s red hair, wondering how soft it would feel.

Crowley shook his head, his eyes intent on Aziraphale’s face. His hand reached up to cover Aziraphale’s lightly, his fingers brushing over the signet ring Aziraphale wore.

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll be sober. But you’ll still be beautiful,” he murmured, his voice tripping over the consonants.

“You’re so drunk, you’re quoting movie lines at me.”

“’Ziraphale, I mean it.” Crowley said, his mouth turning down. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Don’t forget.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale whispered back, turning his hand over so that their palms met, his fingers locking with Crowley’s. “I won’t.”

The shop clock struck 2:00 AM, and suddenly, all the lights in the shop went out.

* * *

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

A large pile of manila envelopes greeted Crowley at his desk as soon as he got back from a client briefing. He could see them from the door to his office. He groaned, already feeling the start of a splitting headache.

“Pulsifer!”

“Yes, sir?” A junior associate’s head popped up from behind a cubicle divider.

“What’s all this?” Crowley waved vaguely in the direction of his desk.

“The court ordered the opposing counsel to send those documents to you.”

“Which case?” Crowley growled.

“Oh. Erm, the vintage Bentley case.”

Crowley sighed and turned to enter his office. About bloody time they sent him the documents, the mediation was scheduled on Friday and he didn’t have a minute to spare. By all rights, this case shouldn’t even be assigned to him, but he’d been asked to take it as a special favour – they all knew his love for vintage automobiles.

“Er, Mr. Crowley?” Pulsifer said hesitantly.

“What?” Crowley didn’t turn.

“The other party decided to change their counsel. In case you wonder about the new name on the documents.”

“How come?”

“They didn’t say. I just saw it on the documents and checked with the court.”

“Shame. The last idiot they hired would’ve been easy pickings for us.”

Crowley shut the door of his office behind him. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the window – he looked exhausted. Frankly, it was a miracle he still had a full head of hair with all the stress they gave him, he thought, running his fingers through his blonde curls. He shrugged off his coat, throwing it across the small sofa before collapsing into his sinfully comfortable office chair, rubbing at his temples.

Finally, after a fortifying sip of coffee, he picked up the top envelope on the pile, examining the label.

> **TO:** A.J. CROWLEY, ESQ., MCDONALD LUCAS LLP
> 
> **FROM:** A.Z. FELL, ESQ., EASTWOOD & GATHORNE
> 
> **RE:** 1926 BENTLEY INSURANCE DOCUMENTS

Crowley pulled out his sleek black laptop from its equally sleek black leather case, typing in “A.Z. Fell solicitor” in the search bar. He scrolled through the results carefully. Aziraphale Fell obtained both his J.D. and MJur degrees at Oxford, where he was now also a faculty member, and had become the youngest senior partner in history at Eastwood & Gathorne, one of the biggest law firms in London.

It was an impressive resume, Crowley grudgingly admitted to himself. What was a solicitor like Fell doing with a petty case like this? He clicked to check the image results – flaming red hair, skinny, dressed like he had time-travelled from the Victorian era. The man had an honest-to-goodness _bow tie_ and wore sunglasses indoors _._

He smirked. This would be a piece of cake.

\--

**Wednesday 23 October 2019, 11:19 AM**

A loud buzzing distracted Crowley from the horribly long contract he was perusing. He picked up his phone – it was another email notification, and he was very nearly tempted to ignore it, had it not been for the email address.

> **From:** A.Z. Fell <azfell@eastwoodandgathorne.com>  
>  **To:** <ajcrowley@mcdonaldlucasllp.com>  
>  **Date:** 23 October 2019, 11:19 AM  
>  **Subject:** Meeting Re: 1926 Bentley
> 
> Good day,
> 
> I hope this email finds you well.
> 
> My name is Aziraphale Fell, and I am representing my client Anathema Device regarding the recent accident involving her 1926 Bentley.
> 
> As I have only recently been appointed the counsel for this case, I would like to request that we meet prior to the mediation scheduled this Friday, 25 October 2019 at 10:00 AM. I would appreciate if we could schedule a meeting over breakfast at 8:00 AM. The meeting room reservation at the Ritz has been adjusted accordingly.
> 
> I look forward to a productive meeting.
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> **Aziraphale Z. Fell, Esq.  
>  **Senior Partner  
>  Eastwood & Gathorne Law Offices

Interesting. Crowley thought for a moment before typing out his reply.

> **From:** Crowley, Anthony J. <ajcrowley@mcdonaldlucasllp.com>  
>  **To:** A.Z. Fell <azfell@eastwoodandgathorne.com>  
>  **Date:** 23 October 2019, 11:21 AM  
>  **Subject:** Meeting Re: 1926 Bentley
> 
> Confirming to meet at 8:00 AM at the Ritz on 25 October 2019.
> 
> **Anthony J. Crowley, Esq.  
>  **Senior Partner  
>  McDonald Lucas LLP

\--

**Friday 25 October 2019, 7:45 AM**

Crowley sauntered up to the front desk, giving Fell’s name to the receptionist, who promptly gasped.

“Just a moment, sir.”

That was… weird. He knew perfectly well where the meeting rooms were. After a minute, the hotel manager scurried out.

“Good morning, sir. May I accompany you to your meeting room?”

“Er, sure.”

As they walked together, the manager was giving him a curious look.

“Mr. Fell is one of our long-time clients here. We do hope you will have a pleasant experience with us today.”

The hotel manager opened the door for Crowley, and his eyes widened in surprise. The room Fell had booked was lavishly furnished and was large enough for 50 guests. Crowley could just make out a man seated at a table at the end of the room, the bright red hair unmistakeable.

Crowley checked his watch surreptitiously – he had arrived precisely 15 minutes ahead of schedule at the front desk earlier. He felt slightly out of his depth. He always made it a point to be the first person at a meeting to avoid being caught off-guard when meeting someone new but Fell had arrived even earlier.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the manager said, inclining his head. “Please don’t hesitate to let us know if you need anything.

The door clicked shut behind Crowley, and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He walked across the enormous room, finally arriving at the table where Fell sat reading a newspaper. Not knowing what to say, he cleared his throat instead. The newspaper lowered and Fell started at the sight of Crowley. He jumped to his feet.

“Oh, goodness. My apologies. I got so caught up in my reading. How do you do?”

He extended his hand and Crowley took it wordlessly. His grip was firm, the skin soft and warm. Crowley inexplicably felt a flush rising to his face.

“I’m Crowley.”

“Fell. Thank you for coming to meet me today.”

He’d better be grateful, Crowley thought. He hated early-morning meetings, and he detested the sight of Fell sitting there looking utterly refreshed and chipper.

“Do have a seat.”

Fell fussed with his newspaper, folding it up carefully before looking around expectantly. A waiter appeared out of nowhere.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fell?”

“If you could serve our order now, please.”

“With pleasure.”

The waiter vanished as quickly as he came. Crowley watched Fell with more than a little curiosity. He wasn’t what Crowley would call _attractive_ – he was a bit too spare in build, the sharp bones in his cheeks giving him a rather skeletal appearance, but the red hair was quite striking combed carefully away from his face. He wondered what his eyes looked like. They were hidden behind a pair of small round spectacles.

Crowley blinked in surprise when Fell suddenly beamed at him.

“I thought we might have a bite to eat before we settle down to business.”

“I’m really not that hungry,” Crowley said dryly.

“Come now, you haven’t tried the marvellous pastries they serve for breakfast here yet,” Fell protested. “I assure you it will be enjoyable.”

“Right… I believe you.”

“Do excuse my sunglasses, by the way. They’re prescription lens.”

“No problem,” Crowley shrugged, though now he was infinitely more interested in seeing what Fell’s eyes looked like.

As Fell chattered on, filling the quiet with his easy small talk, Crowley found himself relaxing in increments, caught up in Fell’s charm. That must be it, he thought – there was something almost _magnetic_ about Fell, and Crowley found himself being drawn out of his usual tightly closed shell almost against his will.

Before long, the waiter returned bearing large platters of scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, a basket of toast, at least three different types of marmalade, a plate of butter, and an extraordinary variety of pastries. Crowley stared at the feast that had been laid before them as the waiter poured him a cup of coffee. He looked up at Fell, wondering how he stayed as thin as he did with an appetite this enormous.

“Well, don’t be shy. Help yourself.”

“Er, just the coffee’s alright, thanks.”

“Oh.” Fell’s mouth curved into a pout that Crowley was beginning to find maddeningly endearing. “But the food here is delicious. Won’t you at least try a pastry?”

At Fell’s cajoling, a blueberry muffin ended up on Crowley’s plate. He even managed a few bites of it – delicious, just as Fell had said, though a bit too sweet for his taste. It was worth it, he thought, to see Fell smiling happily at him as he chewed and swallowed another bite.

His mind screeched to a halt. What the hell was he _doing?_ He couldn’t go around having breakfast with the opposing counsel, there must be some conflict of interest at stake here. But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from Fell and his ridiculous tartan bow tie and his way of talking to Crowley as though they were old friends.

 _I am so screwed,_ he thought to himself distantly as he gazed at Fell putting a forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth and making an obscene sound that went straight to Crowley’s groin. He flushed red to the tips of his ears and hastily took a sip of steaming coffee from his freshly refilled mug, scalding his tongue. For once, he was grateful for the burn.

\--

**Friday 25 October 2019, 11:56 AM**

“This is going nowhere,” Crowley said, his teeth clenched together. “Fell, you are aware that in a mediation, the parties intend to reach a compromise, don’t you?”

“Certainly,” Fell said calmly. “But as it stands, these are not terms that are acceptable to my client.”

Crowley glowered at him. How was he so infuriating? It was as though he knew just what to say and do to slip under Crowley’s skin, to needle Crowley into accepting his terms.

“In any case, I think it might be time for us to adjourn. We can schedule the next meeting when you’ve discussed with your client, Crowley. I believe we’re offering very good terms here. Frankly, your client can’t afford to raise the stakes any higher, can they?”

Fell raised his teacup to his lips and took a sip of tea, looking supremely unbothered. Crowley was seething at the sight of him. The mediator’s gaze darted back and forth at the two of them sitting opposite each other, and he laughed weakly.

“Are you certain you’ve never met before? You seem to know each other rather well,” he said, in a painfully transparent attempt to defuse the tension.

“I doubt I could ever forget meeting this particular solicitor,” Fell said wryly. “Quite the character, as you can see.”

“You’re one to talk,” Crowley muttered.

“Yes, erm. I’ll email to coordinate a new schedule then, shall I?”

“That would be very much appreciated, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled at the mediator, who packed up his papers into the briefcase he carried and scurried out of the room as fast as his legs could take him.

Crowley stared out the window as the door shut with a click. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple, the beginning of a headache already making itself felt. That hadn’t gone at all the way he had expected it to, not after their little tête-à-tête that morning. Fell was surprisingly unyielding, his voice stern as they had argued over payment terms and liabilities.

Crowley had to admit that as pissed off as he was, seeing Fell like that had lit something up in him, and he _really_ didn’t want to think about that right now.

“Crowley.” Fell sighed. “I rather underestimated you.”

Crowley snorted.

“Likewise,” he muttered. “Thought this would be a done deal.”

He checked his watch. It was nearly half-past twelve, and he had another meeting in the office in less than an hour that he needed to get ready for.

“Crowley,” Fell said again.

“What?”

Crowley paused in the middle of gathering up his documents and looked up at Fell, whose expression was suddenly inscrutable behind the dark glasses.

“I have a dinner reservation here at 8:00 tonight. I’d be honoured if you joined me.”

Crowley’s eyebrows contracted in uncertainty. What a conundrum Fell was. Throwing him a delighted smile one moment, a cold glare the next, and now asking him to dinner?

“You really like this place, don’t you?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’d like to go over today’s notes with you one more time.”

Puzzling as he was, Crowley conceded that he wouldn’t actually mind getting a few extra hours in Fell’s company. For work-related reasons, of course. It had been a while since he had met someone who could so nearly outmanoeuvre him in a negotiation.

“Fine,” he finally said, his fingers slipping around the clasp of his briefcase. “I’ll see you later.”

\--

**Friday 25 October 2019, 7:50 PM**

Crowley sat at a round table set for two, a glass of red wine already nearly empty in front of him. He’d arrived thirty minutes early this time, just to be sure to get there before Fell did. A waiter refilled his wine glass from the bottle on the table. He checked his phone surreptitiously, starting to feel anxious. It’s not like this was a date, he chided himself. This was a business meeting. He wasn’t about to get stood up at the _Ritz,_ of all places. If Fell couldn’t make it, they’d just reschedule. That was all there was to it.

“Crowley?”

He started, nearly dropping his phone on the table. Fell was already pulling out the chair next to him.

“My apologies for being late. Got caught in a meeting that could have been an email.”

“S’alright,” Crowley said, suddenly relieved. “We’ve all been there. And you’re eight minutes early, Fell. It’s only 7:52.”

“Well, you know what they say – on time is late.”

The waiter reappeared and neatly filled Fell’s glass with wine.

“I went ahead and ordered something to drink. Though it looks like you need it.”

“I certainly do.” Fell let out a long exhale. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk shop tonight.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed at him.

“Fell, if you wanted to have dinner with me, all you had to do was ask,” he said abruptly.

“Well, it didn’t seem quite right, did it? You are the opposing counsel on this case, after all.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Fell removed his sunglasses, pulling out a piece of cloth to wipe them for a few moments. When Fell glanced up at him, he nearly recoiled. His eyes were a jarring shade of honey-brown – Crowley’s heart was pounding in his chest suddenly. He’d never seen anyone with eyes like that before, and he was shocked at the irrational wave of revulsion that overtook him. He dropped his gaze, embarrassed.

“Didn’t mean to stare,” he said reflexively, hoping Fell hadn’t noticed.

“Not to worry,” Fell said in a resigned tone that told Crowley he was all too used to people staring. Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They’re very sensitive to light, that’s all.”

Crowley looked up to see Fell gazing at him with those eyes of his. There was again that uncanny sense of familiarity that he couldn’t put a finger on, as though the fabric of reality had been moved one inch to the right – enough to make a difference, but barely enough for him to be able to tell what had changed.

Fell leaned across the table, his searching gaze devouring Crowley’s face.

“Forgive me, dear boy. I’m not usually this direct, but I – I feel as though I know you so well already. Pardon me if I seem overly comfortable with you.”

“I –” Crowley didn’t know how to explain how he felt. His heart was still thudding against his ribs. “Me too.”

“It feels strange,” Fell murmured. “For some reason when I look at you, I feel as though you remind me of someone I once knew.”

He reached out tentatively toward Crowley, and his hand came to rest on the table between them. Crowley noticed for the first time that he was wearing a golden signet ring, shaped like – were those wings?

Without warning, the headache that had been building at the bank of Crowley’s head all day felt as though it had burst. He gasped at the sudden pain and his eyes clenched shut.

“Crowley? Crowley, are you alright?”

Fell’s voice was full of alarm as his hand closed over Crowley’s. The gold ring was burning hot to the touch. The sensation sent another searing pain through Crowley’s head.

“Aziraphale –”

He could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket – the 8:00 PM reminder he had set for their dinner. Suddenly, everything fell dark.

* * *

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

Crowley tore through the contents of his toolbox, trying to find the phone that he’d crammed into it while he had been hurriedly packing up for the day, growing increasingly annoyed at the sound of its insistent buzzing. At last he found it, inexplicably stuffed into one of his black work gloves. He tugged it out irritably and answered the call.

“What?”

“Hello, Anthony,” Anathema’s cheerful voice came through the line.

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Never stopped me before.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re in a mood.” He could practically hear her frowning at him through the phone. “We’re still on for that Halloween party next Friday, okay? Have you found a costume yet?”

“I am too fucking old to play dress-up on Halloween.”

“Hey, come on! It’ll be fun. You have really got to get out more.” Her voice took on a subtle teasing tone. “Who knows, you might even meet someone there. That one and only person you’ve been holding out for all these years.”

“Shut up,” he groaned. “’Sides, at this point in time, I’m starting to think they probably don’t even exist.”

“Look, I’ll take care of your costume and everything. All you have to do is show up.”

“If you make me look like an idiot next week, I swear –”

“You’ll be fine,” she interrupted him. “Do me a favour and wear white, won’t you?”

“Anathema…” Crowley warned.

“Crowley…” She mocked his tone. “It won’t be a costume if I let you get away with wearing black like you do every day. Be grateful I’m not making you put on a rainbow.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“I don’t exactly get a choice in this, do I?”

“You really don’t. Accept your fate, Anthony. I’ll see you on Friday.”

\--

**Friday 1 November 2019, 4:35 PM**

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“It’s tasteful!” Anathema protested.

Crowley scrubbed his hand over his face, surveying the large pair of white wings Anathema was proudly showing off. Her own costume was laid out on Crowley’s couch – a stylish dark blue dress with balloon sleeves that somehow appeared at once to be both avant-garde and classic, with an enormous bag of makeup and hair styling tools sitting next to it.

“Please don’t tell me it comes with a halo.”

Anathema pressed her lips together.

“Crowley, if you’re putting on a costume, you might as well go all the way.”

He ruffled his hair through his fingers, a frustrated sound escaping his throat.

“Hey, I promised it would look good.” Anathema held out the wings toward him. “At least trust my fashion sense.”

“Fine, what the hell,” he said resentfully. She did always know how to dress well. He took the wings from her gingerly. “Go on, you can use my room.”

He jerked his head in the direction of the door next to Anathema. She grinned at him, gathering up her things in her arms before disappearing into Crowley’s bedroom. The lock turned with a click.

“And don’t come out until I tell you to!” Crowley yelled at the closed door.

He looked at the wings he held, which were generously covered in soft white down, and groaned. It was going to be a long night.

\--

**Friday 1 November 2019, 7:00 PM**

Crowley hovered in a corner of the rooftop buzzing with people, watching Anathema speaking to a hapless man in glasses who seemed to be trying to flirt with her. Crowley snorted at how ridiculous he looked next to Anathema – because of course, despite being in a witch costume with dark eye makeup and elaborately knotted hair, she still managed to make it so natural, as though it was something she wore every day.

He lifted the bottle he held to his lips and gulped down half its contents, intensely uncomfortable with the wings strapped tight against his back. He had absolutely refused to wear the halo. Anathema had sweetly assured him that “he actually looked attractive for once,” and in fact, he had already noticed a couple of interested glances in his direction at the party.

Something soft collided with the back of his head suddenly, nearly knocking off his prescription sunglasses. He turned, a sharp word already on the tip of his tongue, when he came face to face with a man in a black costume just as ridiculous as his own. Even more so, because the ends of the black wings he wore pointed upwards, stretching them out in length and making them even more unwieldy than Crowley’s own wings, which were at least pointing down and fit closely around his body.

“Oh, my dear fellow. So sorry about that.”

 _Dear fellow?_ Who still said that in this day and age?

“What the hell are you supposed to be?”

“I – er… a demon, I suppose.”

Crowley couldn’t repress a smile. Despite his black clothing and the wings, he couldn’t have looked like less of a demon if he tried, with his large clear eyes and his white-blonde hair and his polite old-fashioned tone, looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Mm, yes. A demon.”

“And you are my angelic counterpart, I suppose?”

The man’s face relaxed into a smile that lit up his eyes. Crowley was somewhat embarrassed at the thought of how attracted he immediately was to this man – easy confidence, blinding smile, short-cropped curls, broad shoulders and all. He could not have been more Crowley’s type than if he had been made to order. Already, he could feel the blood rushing to his face.

“Guess you could say that.” The corners of Crowley’s lips turned up, returning the smile despite himself. “I’m Crowley.”

“Aziraphale. Lovely to make your acquaintance, though I’m sorry it started out this way. With me hitting you on the head with a wing, I mean.”

“Well, if you decide to hit on me in a different way, I have no objections.”

Crowley was proud of himself – just the right amount of casual, enough to make it an invitation if Aziraphale was interested, reduce it to a joke if he wasn’t. His stomach was churning with anxiety regardless, watching the rapid transition of emotion on Aziraphale’s face – shock turned to confusion before finally settling on a cautious sort of interest.

“I suppose I wouldn’t have any objections either, if you wouldn’t mind my company tonight.”

Relief washed over Crowley, soothing his nerves. He smiled, more genuinely this time.

“Come on, I’ll get you a drink.”

\--

**Saturday 2 November 2019, 3:00 AM**

“Where’s everybody gone?” Crowley said, gazing around at the empty rooftop.

“They’ve all gone downstairs.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed warm with alcohol. Crowley couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from him. “Did you… want to go with them?”

“Nah.” Now he remembered. Anathema had given him a knowing wink before she had gone downstairs, hand-in-hand with her bespectacled man. He’d glared at her in return. “We can stay up here a while longer. If you like.”

“I think I’d prefer that.”

Aziraphale smiled at him then, and his heart stuttered. He stumbled to his feet and somehow managed to clamber onto the wall, with only a thin metal railing keeping him from tipping over the ledge. Aziraphale rose to his feet, somewhat alarmed.

“Crowley, what in the world are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to see the view.”

He grinned at Aziraphale, teetering slightly against the railing. To his surprise, a warm hand grasped his own and held it tightly, the touch sending a flash of heat through his body, grounding him even through the haze of liquor.

“Be _careful,_ Crowley,” Aziraphale said, a note of warning in his voice, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Hey, okay. I’ll come down.”

He tried to jump down but couldn’t quite manage it, the whiskey making his legs feel all wobbly, and he cascaded inelegantly down into a tangle of limbs in Aziraphale’s arms. He gazed up at Aziraphale, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Wow. You’re… strong.”

Aziraphale laughed and helped him find his balance until he was standing unsteadily on his own feet again.

“Oh, your wings are all crumpled now,” Aziraphale fretted, brushing the feathers back into place.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m throwing them out in the morning.”

“You’re only an angel for tonight, then?”

“Sure, if you like.”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale with what felt like a ridiculously dopey smile on his face.

“So did it hurt?” Aziraphale asked.

“What did?”

“When you fell from Heaven.” Aziraphale smiled back at him, the pink of his cheeks darkening.

A sudden pain made Crowley’s head throb and he winced, staggering on his feet. Aziraphale was by his side at once, holding him up gently.

“Crowley? What’s the matter?”

“S’nothing.” The pain subsided as quickly as it came. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s arm. “Your frankly terrible joke hurt my head.”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

Aziraphale’s forehead was still creased with concern as he took Crowley gently by the arm and led him over to the chair. If Crowley was leaning on him a little more than necessary, the alcohol was keeping him from feeling any embarrassment about it, for which he was grateful. Aziraphale was so _warm._

“You know what?” Crowley asked, prodding Aziraphale on the arm, trying to distract him from his worry. “I think these wings would suit you better.”

“Funnily enough, I was thinking the same.”

“Well, go on then. Switch with me.” Crowley’s fingers struggled with the straps of the wings he wore, the whiskey running through his veins making his limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

Aziraphale smiled and tugged off the black wings, by now a little worse for wear from being knocked about for several hours. He got up and helped Crowley into the black pair of wings before pulling the white pair on himself.

“There you go,” Aziraphale said, a satisfied look on his face as he gazed at Crowley, whose face suddenly felt hot, and not just from the liquor. “Those certainly seem to suit you better.”

\--

**Saturday 2 November 2019, 6:45 AM**

“Aziraphale, come on.”

Crowley clambered back up onto the wall, by now significantly more sober. He held his hand out to Aziraphale who was watching him with an anxious look.

“The view is magnificent from up here,” Crowley promised.

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment before taking Crowley’s hand and pulling himself up on the ledge next to Crowley. They stood side by side in silence for a moment. Crowley watched as Aziraphale took in the view of the city far below where they stood, his expression transforming to a look of wonder.

“You’re right. It is magnificent,” Aziraphale said at last.

“It really is,” Crowley said softly, his gaze fixed on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale turned to look at him then, and Crowley was suddenly struck by how beautiful Aziraphale was, his face bathed in the soft golden light of the sunrise. There was a curious look on Aziraphale’s face that he couldn’t quite parse.

“Something wrong?” Crowley asked, his eyebrows knitting together in worry.

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “Only I just had a feeling of… what is it they call it? Déjà vu?”

“Yeah? You think this has happened before? You’ve stood on the ledge of a wall with a stranger, with wings strapped onto your backs?”

Aziraphale laughed.

“It sounds silly, I know. But you asked.” He reached out and took Crowley’s hand, looking up at him shyly through his fine lashes. “And you don’t feel like a stranger at all, Crowley.”

“You did just spend the past twelve hours on this rooftop with me.” Crowley reminded him, an eyebrow raised.

There was a strangely powerful emotion that was making itself felt in Crowley’s chest, so strong it felt like a physical pain, something like longing and agony and happiness and anger all at once. Suddenly, he wanted to see Aziraphale clearly in the unfiltered light of day.

Crowley gently tugged his hand from Aziraphale’s to pull off his sunglasses, squinting as his sensitive eyes adjusted to the light. As he blinked, Aziraphale came back into focus, but somehow, the battered white wings he wore were suddenly huge and majestic, the feathered wingtips brushing the ledge they stood on. Caught in his disbelief, Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Aziraphale, looking for all the world like an –

“Angel?” Crowley whispered, the word rising to his words unbidden.

His glasses dropped to the ground from his nerveless fingers and shattered as he gazed at Aziraphale, whose chest was rising and falling visibly, his eyes wide, betraying the storm that raged within them.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was hardly more than a ragged breath. “Crowley, I – I must be going mad, but has this happened before?”

“I – I don’t know.”

Crowley edged forward, drawn toward Aziraphale and his wings glowing so brightly that it seemed nearly… divine. Somehow, it wasn’t strange at all. It felt _right_ that Aziraphale was standing there, strong and splendid and absolutely breath-taking. _Do not be afraid,_ a voice whispered in Crowley’s head. He raised his hand over his face, the dazzling light blinding him, and stepped closer toward Aziraphale. Suddenly, another flash of pain surged through his head.

His foot landed on a loose block, and he slipped.

Flailing for balance, his back struck hard against the thin railing, which abruptly gave way under his weight.

For a split second, Crowley knew what was about to happen, and yet somehow, he felt utterly calm. Crowley stared into the churning sea of Aziraphale’s eyes filled with panic and fear and _recognised_ him.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, fingers reaching for Aziraphale, Aziraphale’s scream ringing in Crowley’s ears as he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a reincarnation fic of sorts, there will be temporary character deaths every now and then.
> 
> Title of this fic from Ocean Vuong's _On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous_.
> 
> Thank you to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) for tolerating all the yelling I've done about this fic at all hours of the day and night, and to my other beta who would like to remain ~anonymous~ for cheering me on all the way!
> 
> Please do subscribe if you liked this! Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Cognitive Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen to me. We don’t have much time. You have to remember me.” Crowley’s voice broke, and he could barely get the words out around the tightness of his throat. “I don’t know when I’m going to find you again, and I don’t know how much time we’ll have. Please try, angel. Try and remember me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: minor sexual content, violence. Please mind the tags and updated rating!

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

Aziraphale stood in front of the museum, glancing down at the piece of paper he held. _Anthony Crowley,_ the note said in Newton’s hurried scrawl, _NIAT RUC_.

A gorgeous black vintage Bentley screeched to a stop on the pavement in front of him, as though its driver was waiting for someone. Aziraphale was incredulous for a moment. This couldn’t possibly be his Uber, could it? He trotted over quickly to the back to peer at the plate number, which spelled out “BGT 443.”

Blushing and feeling rather silly, he turned away from the Bentley quickly, only for his eyes to fall on the car behind it, a black Prius shining as though it had been newly waxed and polished, with a plate number that matched the letters in the piece of paper Aziraphale held.

His eyes lit up in recognition and he approached the car, knocking carefully on the passenger side window, catching a glimpse of his reflection before it rolled down – his red hair dishevelled from the wind, his tartan bow tie slightly askew. It rolled down to reveal its driver, a man with white-blonde hair lounging casually in the driver’s seat, his arm slung around the passenger seat as he leaned towards Aziraphale with a questioning look in his eyes.

“Er, are you Anthony Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “Sorry. I’ve never taken an Uber before.”

“Yep, that’s me. You’re not… Newton Pulsifer, are you?” He peered at his phone, his eyes darting back and forth between the screen and Aziraphale’s face. “This isn’t you in the photo.”

“No, I’m Aziraphale Fell. Newton was kind enough to book an Uber for me, since I haven’t got a smartphone,” Aziraphale explained. “Do you mind if I put my suitcase in the back seat?”

“Feel free. Need any help?”

“No, no. I can manage.”

Aziraphale opened the door to the backseat and lifted his small suitcase into the car, tucking it carefully in place so that it wouldn’t get jostled. He looked up for a moment to see his driver watching him with a strange expression on his face, as though he knew Aziraphale from somewhere but couldn’t quite place him. He looked away abruptly.

“Well, get in then, Mr. Fell.” He leaned over and opened the door for Aziraphale, who climbed into the passenger seat and fussed with his waistcoat before settling in and fastening his seatbelt.

“Ready?”

“Yes, thank you, Anthony.”

He grimaced at that as the car pulled away from the curve and merged back into the London traffic. “No one calls me that. Just Crowley is fine.”

“Alright, then, just Crowley.”

Crowley threw him an amused glance out of the corner of his eye. “Your name’s a mouthful. Where’d it come from?”

“I’m told I was named for an angel. Though why they couldn’t have chosen something simpler like ‘Michael’ or ‘Gabriel,’ I’ll never understand.”

“Those are awful names.” Crowley made a face. “Yours is… it suits you just fine.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale was quite surprised at that. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“On a trip to London, are you?” Crowley nodded his head in the direction of the backseat.

“Yes. I’m from Tadfield. This is my first time in London, actually.”

“Welcome to the big city,” Crowley said sarcastically, gesturing at the traffic jam they were currently caught in. “It’s going to take us approximately 26 minutes to get to… what is this?”

“It’s the apartment I’m staying in. It’s called an Air B-N-B.”

Crowley laughed aloud suddenly, the sound of it surprisingly exuberant. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling, surprised at their easy rapport. How odd, to feel so comfortable with someone he’d just met.

“Anyway, why’re you heading home so early? Aren’t you going to see the sights or whatever?”

“Well, I did think about it,” Aziraphale admitted. His hands were fidgeting in his lap. “I feel rather out of my depth, though. I decided maybe I should just head back for now.”

“It’s your first time in London, it’d be a shame to waste it.” Crowley cocked his head to one side as though thinking hard. The traffic was finally starting to move. “Look, how about I take you to your Airbnb and you drop off your suitcase there? Then… I can give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

“Won’t you have to work?” Aziraphale asked reluctantly. As much as he wanted to agree, it didn’t seem right to be taking an entire afternoon of Crowley’s time when he could be working.

“Nah. This is just something I do on the side.” The corner of Crowley’s mouth turned upwards into a sly smile. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me dinner at the end of the night, and we’ll call it even.”

Aziraphale hadn’t considered it until now, but there was something about Crowley that was alarmingly attractive. Maybe it was the easy way he carried himself, as though nothing could faze him. The cool look in his eyes – what colour were they? He wished he could get a better look at them. Or was it the way he combed his fingers through his blonde curls? Something about his body language seemed strangely familiar to Aziraphale.

“If you’re sure…”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “If I minded, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Well, it’s very kind of you.”

“Stop it,” Crowley complained. “It’s not a big deal, alright?”

“Alright.” Aziraphale watched him sidelong. Crowley drove as though the car was an extension of his body, and it was fascinating. Aziraphale knew how to drive, of course, but there was no way he would ever agree to drive on London streets. “Where do you propose we start then, Mr. Tour Guide Crowley?”

“You’re the bookish type, aren’t you,” Crowley said, eyeing Aziraphale with an inquisitive look. Somehow, it wasn’t a question.

“I am, as a matter of fact.” Aziraphale’s fingers fretted at his bow tie, suddenly remembering that it had been askew. He longed to rearrange his hair, feeling suddenly conscious about the mess of his curls compared to Crowley’s perfectly styled hair.

“Guess you’d want to go see the Globe or Shakespeare’s house or something? Unless you’d rather do all the usual tourist spots, Buckingham Palace and all that. Really don’t recommend it, though.”

“Since you’re the London native here, I think I’d rather go with what you want.”

Crowley made an oddly strangled noise in his throat.

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 3:00 PM**

Aziraphale looked around the Globe Theatre, feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the thought of all the literary history that lay in this one place, imagining all the great actors who had once trod the boards here. Perhaps Shakespeare himself had once stood where he was standing now.

“It’s your lucky day. Hardly anyone’s here today,” Crowley commented, looking around the theatre.

There was an ongoing rehearsal of _Hamlet_ , the young actor onstage performing a spirited recitation of one of Hamlet’s soliloquies. Aziraphale had never been here before, but there was something about the Globe that seemed so comfortable to him, as though it was a place he had always known and loved. He smiled at Crowley with delight.

“While we’re at it, how did you convince them to let us in here? Shouldn’t the theatre be off-limits during rehearsals or something?” Crowley asked.

“I’m not sure, really. I just asked them nicely.”

Crowley laughed.

“I want to say I’m surprised, but I’m honestly not. You’re exactly the kind of person who’d get away with that sort of thing.” Crowley was looking at Aziraphale, and he could have sworn there was something like affection in Crowley’s smile. He could feel the heat creeping up his face at the thought.

“You’re making rather a lot of assumptions about me today, don’t you think?”

“Oh, am I? Are they assumptions if they aren’t wrong?” Crowley’s eyebrow was raised in a way that seemed almost knowing.

“I should get a turn.” Aziraphale thought for a moment. “I think that you’d be the kind of person to act all snobby and cool, when in reality, you would be perfectly happy sitting at the park feeding the ducks in the afternoons.”

Crowley spluttered, looking offended. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Hm. And yet… you aren’t denying it.”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 1:50 AM**

There was a pleasantly warm feeling in Aziraphale’s stomach five cocktails later. Crowley had left the Prius behind at what Aziraphale was almost certain was an illegal parking spot, but Crowley had waved off all his objections.

“Look, I just thought you’d enjoy the scenery a little better if we walked.”

“Ah, yes. Because neon lights and seedy bars are the kind of scenery I’d enjoy,” Aziraphale retorted.

“London native, remember?” Crowley raised an eyebrow in an expression that had become all too familiar to Aziraphale after nearly twelve hours spent in Crowley’s company. “You’ll have fun, I know it. Would I lie to you?”

They’d stopped at every bar that had taken Aziraphale’s fancy and had a cocktail at each place before moving on to the next. By now, the edges of the neon lights were blurring together as he and Crowley stumbled down an alley, laughing as they walked together unsteadily back to the Prius, Crowley’s arm securely tucked under Aziraphale’s. There was hardly any traffic now, though there were still some people milling about.

They stopped to catch their breath for a moment before getting into the car. An enormous bright sign above the car spelled out “DOWNSTAIRS,” with an arrow pointing down at a set of stairs, the light of the O blinking indecisively above Crowley’s head, casting his face into shadow, then light, then shadow once more.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley and wondered suddenly how it would feel to run his fingers through the carefully coiffed white-blonde curls, to feel Crowley’s warmth against his body, to taste Crowley in his mouth, to see him coming apart under his hands.

“Dark enough now, isn’t it?” Crowley murmured. “Think you could take these off?”

His hand hovered over Aziraphale’s face timidly. Aziraphale nodded, his heart pounding, and Crowley reached up to pull his glasses off slowly. Aziraphale blinked for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the neon. Crowley tucked the sunglasses carefully into Aziraphale’s breast pocket before grabbing his lapels and tugging him closer until their lips were only inches apart - but Crowley stilled suddenly.

“Too fast?” Crowley asked, looking uncertain.

There was a strange sensation in Aziraphale’s chest at the hesitant question, an ache that was nearly tangible. Suddenly, it was as though he couldn’t stand the few inches that separated them any longer. He wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist and pulled him flush against his body, closing the gap between them to feel the softness of Crowley’s lips. A gasp escaped Crowley’s lips as Aziraphale tightened his grip on the layer of hard muscle that lay under the softness of Crowley’s hip, his hand in the spun silk of Crowley’s light hair. Aziraphale pushed Crowley hard against the door of the Prius, smiling at the satisfying moan it ripped from Crowley’s throat, the sudden rush of pleasure heady and intoxicating.

“I think you should take me home now, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, catching Crowley’s bottom lip with his teeth and biting down ever so gently as Crowley keened softly, his face washed in hues of yellow and pink and red and blue with the neon lights catching on his face, his eyes half-lidded and stormy grey with desire. Aziraphale had never done this before, gone home with a stranger, and he wondered at his own daring – he had never _wanted_ like this before, and he was drunk at the sight of Crowley already unravelling in his arms right there on the sidewalk.

“Yes. Whatever you want,” Crowley said breathlessly. He tipped his chin up to be kissed, and Aziraphale gladly obliged, capturing Crowley's lips with his own and kissing him soundly until he was gasping for breath, his hips pressing against Aziraphale urgently.

Aziraphale dimly registered catcalls in the distance and he smiled against Crowley’s mouth. He pulled away to look at Crowley and was suddenly overwhelmed with a sensation of unreality, as though everything had adjusted itself an inch to the left, everything somehow the same and yet also completely different. Aziraphale’s face tilted slightly up now to look at Crowley, his gaze met by a pair of eyes honey-gold to the edges with slits for pupils. Amber gems set in a face whose sharp corners and right angles was as familiar as… his own.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said wonderingly.

He should have been screaming bloody murder, but he was surprisingly calm, even when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the Prius’s window and saw that his own hair was white-blonde, curls cropped short and crowning the face that had been Crowley’s not a few seconds ago.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, a strange tug of recognition in his chest. For some reason, a lump rose to his throat at the sight of those fierce golden eyes, so familiar and yet so otherworldly.

“There you are.” His hand reached up to trace the line of Crowley’s jaw.

“About time, angel.” Crowley’s face softened.

They were interrupted by a sudden loud ruckus of a drunk customer getting thrown out of a nearby bar, the bouncer yelling, “It’s nearly 2:00 AM on a Monday, go home!”

Aziraphale was startled when Crowley’s hands clenched around his lapels.

“Something’s happening.”

His golden eyes were wide with fear. Aziraphale could feel it now too, a force steadily growing in magnitude pulling at his body, pulling him away from Crowley, as though he were no more than a puppet being dragged by the strings by an invisible hand.

“Crowley, what’s going on?”

His arms tightened around Crowley, his heart racing wildly, the fear running through his veins cold as ice. He gazed at Crowley, whose expression had shifted from sheer panic to something that resembled determination.

“Listen, angel,” Crowley said urgently, cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands and pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. “I’ll see you again. Don’t be afraid.”

Aziraphale nodded tightly. He couldn’t understand anything that was happening. He trusted Crowley, but he was terrified. The neon lights surrounding them were flickering madly, growing brighter and brighter as though a surge of energy pulsed through them, until they shorted out. The street was completely silent save for the sounds of the light bulbs blazing with too much heat until they sputtered and died with a pop, one at a time, candles being blown out by an unseen mouth.

Crowley leaned forward for one last desperate kiss, his arms shaking around Aziraphale with the effort of holding them together until the “DOWNSTAIRS” sign went out, submerging them in darkness.

* * *

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

The phone rang briskly on Aziraphale’s desk. He put down the first edition of Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ he was holding back into its case and pulled off his white work gloves before picking up the phone.

“Hello, Arts and Culture team.”

“Hey, Aziraphale. Listen, Anathema just called in sick with the flu. She won’t be able to do the gallery exhibit tonight. Do you mind covering for her?”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to.”

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 6:00 PM**

The gallery was already buzzing with people by the time Aziraphale arrived, feeling somewhat lost. As much as he loved art, he didn’t usually cover the art exhibitions. They normally went to Anathema. She’d messaged him later – _I owe you one book review!_

He didn’t mind, of course. It was just that the people in these art circles tended to know one another. He knew he would be looked at askance for being here, unlike Anathema with her years of being an art critic firmly under her belt. He sighed, squaring his shoulders. It was just for a few hours at most. He could handle a few hours. And it wasn’t like the literary circle was much different, in any case.

Aziraphale glanced at the sign next to the entrance - a major solo exhibition running from October 21 – November 3. He had done his research beforehand, though this was his first time seeing the actual paintings. Anthony J. Crowley was known both for being a prolific artist and for having a penchant for juxtaposing hyperrealist elements with more classical styles in his work, which often subverted Biblical and religious themes. Quite the smash hit, despite the controversial material – or rather, perhaps because of it.

He pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. With a single glance around the gallery, his immediate impression was that the critics weren’t joking when they said Anthony J. Crowley was a prolific artist. Paintings of all sizes lined the walls in the enormous hall, and Aziraphale could see smaller rooms leading off into other sections of the exhibit from where he stood. He raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself.

Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server, he slowly edged his way through the crowd and the cocktail tables to get nearer to the front, where the artist was giving a speech - a head of striking red hair tied back into a ponytail, a pair of sunglasses obscuring his face. He looked vaguely familiar, Aziraphale thought. Maybe he’d seen his photo in the papers before.

“That’s all I’ve got to say, I guess. Thanks for coming and enjoy the rest of the night.” He swept into a graceful, if rather ostentatious bow. The audience applauded loudly, and flashbulbs went off in every direction.

Aziraphale sighed to himself. Anathema had been hoping to get an exclusive interview with the artist but being a nobody in an art crowd this large would pose quite a bit of difficulty for Aziraphale. True enough, the members of the press in the audience were already flocking in the artist’s direction as he descended from the platform.

This time would better be used actually looking at his work, Aziraphale decided. He started walking around the room, examining each painting carefully.

He had to admit, even without the hype of the press, this was an exhibit that deserved the attention it was getting. The paintings were… there was no other word for it, they were _powerful._ He took out a small notebook from his pocket and started taking notes. _Vivid imagery tending to warmer colours, reds and yellows, stark contrast between modern and classical elements, hints of religious themes_. The last one he marked with an asterisk, a mental note to check with Anathema later.

After a moment’s hesitation, he added one more: _wholly evocative of emotion_. He looked up at a painting of a garden abundant with trees and bushes, a field of red and orange flowers so brightly painted that it resembled a sea of fire, a single fruit tree painted in incredibly realistic detail, with a man swathed in a black cloth lounging beneath the tree in a pose that reminded Aziraphale of a Renaissance painting – was it Tintoretto’s “Summer”? He couldn’t recall. He was too distracted by the look on the man’s face, amazed at the artist’s skill of depicting such expression.

 _Yearning,_ Aziraphale wrote in his notebook. _Loneliness. Grief?_

Aziraphale finally tore his eyes from the painting and found himself facing a hallway into another area, sectioned off from the crowd. How strange, he thought. After taking a quick look around to check if anyone was watching, he ducked below the black velvet rope.

This area was much smaller than the main area outside. It held nothing but three artworks lined up on one wall, spaced a meter apart. They were done in impressionist styles, all of the same model. The first seated in what appeared to be a bar counter, the second standing amidst the ruins of a building, the last in chains, kneeling on a prison floor. The surprising thing about them was the model’s face, painted in the most painstaking hyperrealistic detail – soft white-blonde hair, slightly turned-up nose, the eyes shifting in hue from green to blue to grey, even a hint of hazel.

Aziraphale stood frozen before the paintings of his own face rendered by an artist he had never met, every detail so precise that he might have been looking at himself in a mirror.

There was a movement in a shadowy corner Aziraphale hadn’t noticed as a man rose to his feet from a low bench. Aziraphale’s heart pounded wildly, recognising the red hair and sunglasses. The artist walked to stand before his paintings and turned to face Aziraphale, poised like a snake prepared to strike. Even through the churn of his emotions Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice what a striking image it made, the sharp planes of his face framed by the ruins of the middle painting, obscuring the model – _himself?_ from view.

“What… what is this?” Aziraphale found himself saying, though he could barely think through the sound of the blood rushing through his ears, suddenly afraid.

“Is this real?” The artist whispered, his voice rasping. He removed his sunglasses, revealing startling brown eyes so light they were nearly golden, staring at Aziraphale in shock. “Are you really here?”

Aziraphale stepped back in alarm as he raised his hand, reaching toward Aziraphale.

“What’s going on here?”

“I – I don’t know.”

He dropped his hand when Aziraphale reacted. His chest was heaving visibly, Aziraphale saw, and there was a look of agony on his face that moved Aziraphale despite himself.

“Will you wait until this has ended? Wait for me, please,” he said suddenly, his imploring gaze fixed on Aziraphale.

“Is this some sort of trick?” Aziraphale took another step back, his chest tight.

“No! I swear, I’m not playing games.” He was speaking quickly now, as though fearful that Aziraphale might bolt. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on, either. I just want to talk. Please.”

Against his better judgment, Aziraphale hesitated and nodded slowly. He backed away, taking in the paintings one last time, tried not to see the stricken look on the artist’s face as he turned and left the room.

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 3:30 AM**

Aziraphale sat in the cheap 24-hour diner across the street, his notebook lying open before him. Several attempts had been made to get started on his art review, but to no avail.

Try as he might, he couldn’t recall the paintings he had seen. _Paintings of your face_ , his mind supplied, but he could remember nothing more about them beyond that. He was beginning to feel a throb behind his right ear. He sighed, berating himself for waiting this long for someone who clearly had some sort of devious intention towards him. But every time he convinced himself it was time for him to leave, something held him back.

His mind kept dwelling on the artist’s face, the clear distress in his eyes when he had asked Aziraphale to wait. Aziraphale could almost believe that he meant it when he said that he didn’t know what was going on, though there was a edge of apprehension so sharp it was almost like fear when he thought once more of how his face had been rendered in the paintings, so detailed it was nearly lifelike.

The door of the diner squeaked open as the artist finally stepped in, still in his sunglasses despite the lateness of the hour. Aziraphale felt his pulse kick up a notch, suddenly anxious as he approached.

“Hey. You waited. Thanks,” he said awkwardly, but the relief was obvious in his voice. “Sorry, it took ages. I couldn’t get away. You want something to drink? Have you eaten?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help glancing in the direction of the row of cakes on display at the counter, but he looked away quickly, embarrassed. When he looked up, the ghost of a smile was hovering around the artist’s lips.

“Cake it is. Coffee? Tea?”

“Tea, please,” Aziraphale murmured.

He watched as the artist walked to the counter to order, taking in the spare lines of his body in the black jeans and the turtleneck he wore with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms and the ridiculously fancy watch on his wrist. Aziraphale dropped his gaze to the table when he took the seat across him.

“Hey, erm. I’m Crowley,” he said, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I mean, you already knew that.”

Aziraphale nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on his notebook.

“Are you… going to tell me your name?” Crowley asked uncertainly.

“Are you going to pretend that you don’t know it?”

“I don’t, though.” Crowley leaned back, a long exhale leaving his lips. “I don’t know who you are.”

Aziraphale simply raised his eyebrows.

“Alright, fine. Don’t tell me.” Crowley rubbed at his temple with his fingertips. “Look, I know it sounds insane.”

“What an understatement.”

“I don’t know how to explain it to you. I just… have all these images in my mind. Always have, for as long as I can remember.”

Crowley stopped, as though waiting for Aziraphale to speak. But Aziraphale only watched him, saying nothing. He sighed and continued.

“That’s when I first started drawing. I needed to get them out of my head and onto a piece of paper, and eventually on a canvas. Otherwise, they’d drive me mad.”

A server arrived, setting down a cup of tea, a mug of coffee, and a plate of Battenberg cake in front of them. Aziraphale’s eyes widened – he loved Battenberg cake. He immediately eyed Crowley suspiciously.

“How did you know this was the cake I wanted?”

“Was it?” Crowley shrugged and pushed it toward him. “Got lucky, I guess.”

Aziraphale reddened. He reached for the milk and sugar to cover his confusion, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his tea, adding a bit of milk.

“You’re from the press, then?” Crowley nodded in the direction of Aziraphale’s notebook.

“Yes.” Aziraphale hesitated. “I’m just covering for someone else today.”

“Oh. Not an art critic, then.”

Aziraphale glared at him.

“What’d you write about me?” Crowley’s lips curved into a smirk.

“Nothing yet,” Aziraphale retorted.

“How about I give you an exclusive? I’ll even take you to my studio if you want, give you a sneak peek of what I’m working on next.”

Aziraphale couldn’t deny that that was exactly what Anathema had been hoping for. In any case, he surmised, it would give him a chance to get to the bottom of all this.

“Alright,” he finally said, pulling out a pen and turning to a fresh page of his notebook. “Why do you mainly focus on religious themes in your work?”

“It’s fascinating. I like questioning concepts that most people take at face value, subverting their original meaning. Did the serpent of Eden hang around after the humans had gotten kicked out? Why did God allow it? That sort of thing.”

“Can you talk about your art style? Why intersperse hyperrealism with impressionism?”

“Mainly, when I think about what I want to paint, in my head there are only very specific elements that I want to stand out. Everything else is just background noise.” Crowley’s hand was gesturing aimlessly around his head. “Something like that.”

“Could you explain that a little more?”

“You know when you’re dreaming, some details feel so real and the rest of it is just fuzzy around the edges? I guess that’s what I’m trying to capture… that’s how these images look in my head.” Crowley paused for a moment, as though considering what he was about to say. “As though I’ve dreamed them before. Or they’re memories I can’t recall clearly.”

Aziraphale thought hard, trying to make sense of his words.

“Those paintings you did… were they like that too?”

Crowley shifted in his seat, the lines of his body tensing.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “Like they’re memories from a past life or something.”

“Oh.”

At a loss as to what to ask next, Aziraphale lifted the cup to his lips, the tea nearly scalding him.

To his surprise, Crowley pushed the plate of cake closer to him. “Go on, then.”

“Don’t you want any?”

“Nah. Not a big fan of cake, me.”

Aziraphale reached for a fork and put a bite of cake in his mouth, making an appreciative noise. It was pleasantly moist, the icing just on the right side of sweet. He dabbed at his lips with a napkin and looked up to find Crowley leaning forward, both arms on the table, watching him intently.

“What is it?”

“Still can’t believe it. Thought I was dreaming when I saw you in the crowd,” Crowley said, his voice low. “Call me crazy, but you don’t know how long I’ve seen your face in my mind. And now here you are.”

Heat rushed into Aziraphale’s face as he forced himself to look away. He picked up his pen again, clearing his throat.

“Those paintings, how come they weren’t displayed with the rest of your work?”

“At the last moment, I decided that I… I couldn’t sell them. I didn’t even want anyone to look at them.” There was a strangely possessive tone in Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale realised, and the thought made him shiver. “There’s too much of me in them. I couldn’t.”

“Of you?” But it had been Aziraphale’s face in the paintings.

“Yes. Of me.” Crowley’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening around the handle of the coffee mug. “I don’t even know what your name is, but I can’t get your face out of my head.”

Aziraphale had no idea what to say to that. They sat in silence for a long moment, Crowley staring into the depths of his black coffee, Aziraphale busying himself with the cake and his tea to have something to do with his hands.

“Tell me about the paintings,” Aziraphale finally said.

“Like I said, they’re pictures in my head. I only see a few details clearly, but your face is always the clearest thing I see.”

“I mean, tell me what’s happening in them.”

“What?” Crowley looked confused. “You saw them, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but… for some reason, I can’t seem to remember them at the moment,” Aziraphale admitted quietly.

“Huh.” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “The first one is a painting of… someone sitting at the bar in a restaurant. He’s having a cup of mulled wine, hot enough that it’s still steaming. The second is someone standing in the ruins of a building. It looks like it’s just been blown to bits, and the only thing that survived it is the statue of an eagle. But somehow, his clothes are still immaculate. Not a scratch even on his carpetbag.”

A spike of pain drove itself through Aziraphale’s head suddenly.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed, rubbing at his temple. “I’m going to have a terrible headache when this is all over.”

“Same here. Well, I get headaches all the time, so I guess it wouldn’t be anything different.” Crowley exhaled audibly through his nose and continued. “The last one is a painting of him in a prison cell, and he’s got heavy chains around his wrists. He’s looking up at the high window, and it’s the only source of light in the cell.”

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured. “How odd that I can’t picture them. Is… the person in your paintings alone?”

“Yes. Or at least if he isn’t alone, I can’t see who he’s with.”

“I don’t know what to make of all this, Crowley. How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“What would I get out of lying to you?” Crowley asked, his eyebrow raised quizzically. “I couldn’t make this up if I tried.”

Aziraphale had to admit that was true.

“Anyway, if you don’t believe me now, I think I’ve got something that can convince you.”

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked sceptically.

“Finish up your cake. I’ll take you to my studio.”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 5:30 AM**

Aziraphale stood outside Crowley’s studio watching him fumbling with his keys and suddenly felt a wave of trepidation come over him. Crowley hadn’t done anything to make him suspicious – in fact, he’d made every effort to the contrary, answering all of Aziraphale’s questions as bluntly as he could. Aziraphale had to admit that he was already more than inclined to trust Crowley, but his stomach was still churning with uneasiness.

Crowley finally managed to get the enormous lock open, and the door slid open. The first few rays of sunlight were already creeping into the studio through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Crowley flicked a switch and the studio flooded with light.

Aziraphale gazed around in astonishment. The studio was enormous, its high ceiling making it appear even larger than it already was. The walls and floor were rough and unfinished. Blank canvases of varying sizes were stacked against one corner next to tables and cabinets filled with art supplies. Everything was neat and organised, and Aziraphale saw with some surprise that the studio was mostly bare but for an easel that faced away from the door, placed in the centre of the studio next to a table with a jar of brushes and a palette, and an array of tall plants in another corner, their leaves verdant and lush.

For the first time since Aziraphale had met him, Crowley seemed somewhat reticent. Aziraphale watched him hesitating for a long moment, looking in the direction of the easel, which held a large canvas.

“Listen. What I’m about to show you… I wasn’t planning on ever exhibiting.” He stopped, took a breath as though to steel himself. “It was just for me. I wasn’t going to show it to anyone.”

 _But he’s going to show you now,_ Aziraphale’s mind supplied, astonished to see Crowley’s cheeks faintly tinged a rather fetching shade of pink. Crowley took another deep breath and walked toward the easel, Aziraphale following behind, his heart suddenly beating hard.

Crowley stopped suddenly right next to the easel.

“Go on, have a look.”

Aziraphale gazed at Crowley for a moment, but he was staring forward determinedly, not looking at Aziraphale.

He took a few faltering steps past the easel, far enough that he would be able to see the painting in its entirety, before turning to look at the enormous canvas.

It was a landscape of arid sand dunes and flat featureless skies. In the middle stood a lone figure in white with Aziraphale’s face, a pair of glowing wings unfurled and spread wide against the heavens. In his hand he bore a sword, its blade set aflame.

“What do you think?”

Aziraphale dimly registered Crowley’s voice, hearing it as though from a distance. He looked at Crowley, who had once again removed his sunglasses, and felt as though he was seeing him for the first time.

“Crowley…”

“Hey. You alright?”

Crowley approached him tentatively, clearly concerned. He came to stand in front of the painting, blocking the figure with his face from view.

“Don’t look at it anymore if it upsets you,” Crowley said, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows, lines of worry appearing around his honey-gold eyes.

Aziraphale gazed at Crowley standing before the canvas, the white wings in the painting appearing as though they extended from Crowley’s shoulders. As he watched, the wings slowly turned black, as though they were being scorched from the scapula outwards, until they were dark as night to the very wingtips and stretching themselves out towards the high ceiling, the glossy feathers catching the light in their filaments.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him, Crowley the artist overlaid with the image of something not of this world, a double exposure that was both unutterably frightening and yet absolutely familiar, the recognition flashing through his mind like a bolt of lightning.

A sharp pain pierced through Aziraphale’s head, and he staggered. Suddenly, he found himself in Crowley’s arms. Aziraphale blinked, trying to orient himself, but the image didn’t waver. The circle of the black wings enveloping him securely seemed so real. But around him, he could see the stark lines of the studio blurring, the lights overhead dimming and blinking ominously.

“I believe you,” Aziraphale said urgently, gripping Crowley’s arms tightly. “I’m sorry. I believe you. Do you know who I am, Crowley?”

Crowley nodded wordlessly, his eyes wide as the ground trembled below their feet.

“Tell me your name, angel,” he pleaded.

“Aziraphale. My name is Aziraphale.” He cupped Crowley’s face in both hands, a sense of hopelessness overwhelming him as the walls of the studio began to fade from sight, the darkness forcing its way through from the corners.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated in an agonized voice. “I’ll remember. Aziraphale.”

The black wings drew over Aziraphale in a vain attempt to shield him before the darkness swallowed them whole.

* * *

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

Crowley flipped through the contents of the folder marked “CONFIDENTIAL” one last time, though he already knew each page by heart.

Operation Ghost, the file was titled, with various documents outlining the layout of the museum, the position of each security camera, the patrol routes of the security guards, the shifts of the maintenance staff, everything he needed to know for his op that night.

He went through his things once more as he rehearsed the plan in his mind. Burner phone, detective badge, penlight, handcuffs. His earpiece was cleverly designed to look like a hearing aid. The revolver would go into a concealed pocket in his black jacket, though he absolutely hoped he wouldn’t need it tonight.

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 4:00 PM**

The elevator zoomed up the floors, Crowley’s ears growing muffled with the rapid change in air pressure. He examined his reflection in the mirror, satisfied to see his light blonde hair perfectly arranged, as always. He took a sidelong glance at the security guard next to him, wondering why it had been necessary to have an escort for this meeting.

Finally, the elevator stopped at the penthouse office, and the doors opened to reveal a brightly lit office, the walls and floor so clean and shiny it was nearly antiseptic. He raised his eyebrows, amused. He expected nothing less, given the reputation of the man he was about to meet.

He approached the receptionist who was bent over her laptop, the security guard trailing close behind him, and cleared his throat.

“Oh! You must be Detective Crowley. Please, come this way. He asked me to let you in as soon as you arrived.”

The receptionist stood from her desk and started down the hallway, her high heels clacking loudly against the white tile. Crowley looked at her dove grey blazer and matching pencil skirt and vaguely wondered if this company had a dress code to match the interior design. She knocked on the large oak doors at the end of the hallway, the sound booming in the silence of the office.

“Come in,” Crowley heard, a low voice with a refined accent.

She stuck her head in through the doors.

“The detective is here to see you, sir,” she said politely.

“Do let him in.”

She backed away and nodded at Crowley. He pushed the door open – it was heavier than it looked – and entered.

This room was just as shiny-white and sparkling as the rest of the office, completely bare but for a desk and some chairs in the middle of the room. The enormous windows flooded the room with light. The view of the city below was spectacular from this high up.

“Detective Anthony Crowley. Your fame precedes you.”

So this was Ezra Fell, Crowley thought, as he came forward and shook his hand in both of his own. Renowned businessman and philanthropist, CEO and president of one of the most wildly successful publishing companies in the world, and founder of several local educational charities to boot.

“Good to finally meet you, Mr. Fell.”

He was the chairman of the board of the museum and its biggest shareholder, though you would have never known it to look at him. For all he dressed like a gentleman from the nineteenth century, the red hair and hollow cheeks gave him a rakish appearance, and the dark glasses he constantly wore certainly didn’t help.

“Please, have a seat.” Fell gestured to one of the chairs before his desk.

“Thanks.”

The chair was bare metal, the edge of it sharp and cold against Crowley’s legs.

“Would you like a drink?” Fell gestured to a decanter of scotch and two glasses which sat in a corner of the enormous desk.

Crowley shook his head, impatient for this meeting to be over. “You asked to meet me today?”

“Yes. Forgive me, I’m sure you are very busy, particularly in preparation for tonight’s operation.” Fell surveyed him intently. “I am told you have been placed in charge.”

“That’s right.”

He eyed Fell warily in return. What a strange voice he had. For someone so prim and proper, the low rasp of his voice was oddly provocative, more appropriate for late nights at a fancy cocktail bar than a meeting in the boardroom.

“Detective, I cannot stress enough how essential it is that tonight’s operation go smoothly. I do not doubt that you and your team have taken all the necessary precautions, but it is absolutely imperative that the Mona Lisa sketch is kept safe.”

“I understand, Mr. Fell. We’ll do our best. I will personally be on site tonight with some of our best men to make sure that nothing happens to it.”

Fell nodded thoughtfully.

“You came very highly recommended to us, you know.”

“I hope I live up to your expectations.” All these niceties were beginning to set Crowley’s teeth on edge.

“Is there anything we can do from our end to help?”

“We’ve already coordinated everything with the museum’s security team, and we’ll be working closely with them tonight. Other than that, I don’t think there’s anything else.”

“I trust everything is in place?”

“Yes. I’m heading over to the museum right after this.”

“What time shall the stakeout begin?”

“We’ll be in position by the time before the museum closes, and we’ll be there for the rest of the night.” Crowley answered, watching Fell with narrowed eyes. For some reason, a strange feeling was building in his gut, as though something wasn’t quite right.

“Very well. Please don’t hesitate to let us know if there is something you need.”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 2:30 AM**

There was a soft tapping on the van’s window as Crowley jerked awake, shocked at himself for nodding off. He rolled down the window.

“What is it, Pulsifer?” Crowley said wearily, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“Sir, the tip we got said that the heist was scheduled to begin half an hour ago. But there’s no sign of anything happening. Do you think we’re being, I dunno… misdirected?”

“What?” Crowley was wide awake suddenly. “What makes you say that?”

“No particular reason,” Pulsifer said quickly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m just speculating.”

“Bloody _hell,_ Pulsifer. Give me a report on all the security cameras in the museum the past half hour.”

He rolled the window back up, ignoring Pulsifer’s protests, and booted up his laptop. Quickly, he began scrolling through the security camera footage. Now that he thought about it, something was off. He could feel it like a sixth sense, an undercurrent of tension running through his body. Mechanically, he kept scanning through the footage, thinking hard. The Mona Lisa sketch was located in the middle of the Renaissance collection, in a room with only a single entrance. There was no other way in or out of there, and his team had all their attention concentrated in that area.

There seemed to be no cause for concern in the Renaissance collection’s security footage. He moved on to the Greek and Roman antiquities section and continued scrolling, forcing himself to take even, measured breaths. In his mind, he pictured the layout of the museum. The Renaissance collection was housed at the end of the fourth floor, and the Mona Lisa sketch was by far the most valuable piece of art on display on that floor, perhaps even in the entire museum. 

Nothing in the Greek and Roman antiquities section, either. He clicked to the Eastern and Egyptian art galleries, checking methodically as his mind continued running at full speed. He tried to recall the very last page of the file Pulsifer had given him. Their list of suspects had only one name, and it was nothing but a single initial: “A,” for lack of anything else to go by.

Their M.O. was to turn up and spirit away various objects without leaving a trace. What was strange was the apparently random choices of art, all from different museums in various countries. Crowley and his team could find nothing that connected them together, apart from the fact that there would always be a tip before each robbery, always anonymous and delivered well in advance. Locked doors, 24/7 patrols, cameras, nothing seemed to work – no security footage, no disturbance, as though they simply vanished into thin air.

Crowley thought of the other robberies A had supposedly figured in. A tiny chest that had once been the personal property of Louis XIV himself, lacquered in black with red detailing and the finest gold inlay was stolen from the Louvre. An ancient pewter vase, one of the oldest pieces of Greek metalwork ever discovered.

There was one more. Crowley shut his eyes, tried to remember the most recent heist, until at last he had it – a sculpture of two winged beings wrestling that had been found to have been a genuine Michelangelo, stolen from the Uffizi just a month ago.

A stabbing pain went through his head, and he groaned, massaging the spot just above his forehead where it always seemed to hurt most. Not now, he thought. He couldn’t afford to have one of his migraines, not during this op. He shook his head, trying to clear it. What else did the museum have? Some of the royal jewels? That didn’t seem right. Could it be another one of the sculptures?

He picked up the museum’s official brochure that lay next to his laptop. As he opened it, a piece of paper fluttered down, landing on his foot. He picked it up absentmindedly and turned it over. It was an announcement for a special collection the museum was hosting, just a two-week show for the most well-known pieces of art used in Hollywood movies.

There was a small photo underneath the text. He held it closer to the dim light of his laptop, trying to make out the image, until at last he recognised it – the Maltese falcon statuette from an old Hollywood movie in the 1940’s, the most valuable movie prop in the world.

There was yet another flash of pain in his head as he tried to think. Something about the night had taken an edge of surreality about it. The feeling that something wasn’t quite right had Crowley agitated now, his brain swirling with thoughts and images he had never seen before. For an absurd moment, Ezra Fell’s face entered his mind. There was something strange going on here, he was certain of it. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus. He wouldn’t have much time left until the migraine fully set in.

Another light tapping at the window distracted him suddenly.

“What _now,_ Pulsifer?” Crowley growled.

“Sir, I – I think you better check the special collections area. 2:01 AM, Cameras 7-H and 7-C.”

Quickly, Crowley clicked to the special collections area of the museum on the first floor, scanning the footage carefully. At last, he found the cameras Pulsifer had specified, both of which were in the vicinity of the Maltese falcon statuette. He watched the video intently, alert for anything out of the ordinary.

Then he saw it. At 2:01 AM, the cameras simultaneously disconnected for two seconds before coming back online.

Crowley sat frozen for a moment, his mind whirling. All their eyes were trained on the Mona Lisa sketch on the fourth floor, but what if the real heist was happening on the first floor? He couldn’t afford to pull anyone out now – the sketch was far more valuable than the statuette, but neither could he afford to miss out on an opportunity to catch an internationally wanted criminal. Sighing, he tucked his revolver in the concealed pocket of his coat, already knowing what he had to do.

“Sir?” Pulsifer asked nervously. “Should I call for backup?”

“No.” Crowley sighed and put his earpiece in. “You’re going to have to talk me through this one, Pulsifer.”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 3:00 AM**

“Pulsifer, I’m going dark,” Crowley muttered. “Get backup if I don’t contact you in an hour. And keep trying to hack into their system. Something is definitely going on with their security cameras. I’m starting to think there’s an internal arrangement going on here.”

“Okay, sir,” Pulsifer answered nervously. “Good luck.”

Crowley pulled his earpiece out, tucked it into his pocket. The museum had notoriously poor connection in the special collections area. His heart was racing at the thought of having no backup for an entire hour apart from Pulsifer, and not until he managed to hack into the security cameras.

He took a deep breath and edged his way into the Hollywood exhibit, sticking to the shadows as much as he could, until he came into view of the pedestal in the centre of the exhibit where the Maltese falcon could be prominently displayed and saw –

“I knew it,” Crowley whispered.

There was a large suitcase open on the floor, its interior thickly padded in white, the statuette already safely tucked inside. There was a figure kneeling next to the suitcase in a camel-coloured coat. Crowley would have recognised him anywhere – there was no mistaking that red hair.

Crowley watched as he rose to his feet, carefully placing what was likely a replica of the Maltese falcon on the pedestal. It came as a shock to hear the low rasp of his voice in the utter silence of the museum.

“I know you’re there, Detective Crowley.” Fell spoke without turning around. He sighed and took off his dark sunglasses, wiping them on a piece of cloth from his pocket. “You may as well show yourself.”

Heart beating wildly, Crowley stepped out of the shadows. Fell withdrew a thin leather case from his coat, tucking his glasses into it meticulously before placing it back into his breast pocket. At last, he turned around to face Crowley, his peculiar light brown eyes blazing in the glare of the spotlight trained on the pedestal.

Pain flashed white-hot in Crowley’s head, and he cried out. He fell to the floor on his knees as the blinding realisation set in. He _knew_ Fell – he was more certain of it than anything, though he couldn’t process the how or why through the throbbing of his head.

Strong gloved fingers closed around Crowley’s throat and he was pulled to his feet, gasping as black spots swam before his eyes.

“I thought you might find me here,” Fell murmured. “How did you know? Answer me.”

Fuck, he was _strong._ Between the pain in his head and Fell’s fingers around his neck, Crowley didn’t know how he would be able to get through this alive. He could feel the sharp edge of the ring Fell was wearing under the glove pressing against his jugular.

“I don’t know,” Crowley choked out, his fingers pulling fruitlessly on Fell’s wrists. _Look at me, Fell. You must know me,_ he thought wildly as he fought to breathe.

Fell watched him struggling, a cold look on his face.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’ve seen me, and I can’t have any witnesses.” Fell’s lips curved up. “I’ll make it quick. It’s truly nothing personal, Detective. We just happen to be on opposite sides.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Crowley gasped, his voice grating with the effort to speak. “Why this statuette? Why steal all the others?”

Fell’s face grew stony. “That is none of your concern.”

Even as Crowley struggled, the strength leaving his limbs the longer he tried to fight back, he had a curious thought in his mind that this had always been a possibility – there had always been a chance that this was one of the ways in which his life would end, at the hands of this man whose fingers were clasped tightly around his throat, snuffing out his life without hesitation. _Opposite sides_ , he thought distantly, strangely at peace.

“Isn’t it funny?” Crowley whispered with the last of the air in his lungs. “That I’m doing the good thing, and you’re doing the bad one?”

Suddenly, the constricting pressure around his neck was gone. Crowley’s legs gave way and he landed on the floor in a heap, completely disoriented and drawing breath after painful breath through his throat. After a few moments he looked up, his eyes streaming and his throat on fire. Fell had stumbled back, his hand over his forehead, eyes tight with pain and staring at Crowley as though he had seen a ghost.

“They remind you of something, don’t you? All these pieces you’ve been stealing?” Crowley gasped out.

“Do not presume to know me, Detective,” Fell snarled.

“But I do,” Crowley forced himself up so he could look Fell in the eye. “I know you, Aziraphale.”

Fell froze, his eyes wide.

“How do you know… my name?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley’s voice was barely more than a whisper now. “But I know that I know you. Don’t you recognise me?”

And it was worth it to have nearly died, Crowley thought, if it only meant he could see the light dawning in Aziraphale’s eyes. He collapsed onto the floor, unable to hold himself up any longer.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “What’s happening?”

He inched forward, fingers reaching for Crowley, his eyes wide and breath coming fast.

“Crowley, I… I –”

Aziraphale’s white-gloved hand hovered over Crowley’s bruised throat, his damaged windpipe, a look of utter horror on his face. Crowley reached up to take Aziraphale’s hand, grasping it weakly with what strength he still had left.

“None of that. S’alright, angel.” The endearment rose to his lips so easily, and he wondered at how natural it felt. “You didn’t know.”

“How did you remember me?”

“Dunno. It comes in bursts.” He winced, the breath rattling through his throat painfully. “I don’t understand them, really. But I see you in them, and you’re the only thing that makes sense.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m just glad you recognised me.”

A faint smile of relief rose to Crowley’s lips despite himself. He gazed at Aziraphale kneeling above him, the spotlight above them framing Aziraphale’s head with a bright circle of light. There was something different about him, as though he wasn’t quite how Crowley remembered, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Had Aziraphale’s hair always been red? Were his eyes really this shade of brown?

“What made you remember?” Crowley asked instead. “What do you remember?”

“I don’t know. I think it was something you said earlier.” Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed in confusion, his voice trembling. “It’s just as you described it. There are all these images in my mind, and none of them make sense.”

His hand squeezed around Crowley’s arm suddenly. “Then I saw those art pieces. I couldn’t… I don’t know what came over me,” he whispered, looking distressed. “I thought if I had those art pieces, I would be able to find out what was going on.”

“S’alright now.” Crowley tried to soothe, though he could barely speak. “We'll figure it out.”

“I… I can feel it, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his gaze burning through Crowley, his voice low and urgent. “I know you. _What’s happening to us?”_

Aziraphale looked up abruptly, his face alert, as though listening hard. After a few moments, Crowley could hear the familiar voices of his team in the distance. He’d asked for one hour, he remembered. It must be 4:00 AM. Newt was bringing backup.

But suddenly, the lights at the end of the hall turned off, and the sound of their voices was gone as quickly as though a wall had come down between them.

Crowley’s heart started to pound wildly. Something was happening, and he had the strangest feeling that this had already happened before. He tugged at Aziraphale’s hand.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. “We’re about to be separated.”

“What?” Aziraphale’s eyes were full of dismay. “What do you mean separated?”

“Listen to me. We don’t have much time. You have to remember me.” Crowley’s voice broke, and he could barely get the words out around the tightness of his throat. “I don’t know when I’m going to find you again, and I don’t know how much time we’ll have. Please try, angel. Try and remember me.”

Another set of lights switched off right outside the special collections area. Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, and his eyes were blazing with a strange glow.

“Give me something to remember then,” Aziraphale whispered, his gaze intent. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat as Aziraphale cupped his jaw and bent down to press his lips softly against Crowley’s.

Crowley felt strong arms wrap around him, holding him tightly, and he closed his eyes as the last set of lights above their heads shut off with a loud snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! We're finally getting to the juicy part. Stay tuned for next week's update - the chapter's all ready and I'm excited for you to read it! Please don't forget to subscribe if you liked this!
> 
> Thank you as always to my beta [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) and my ~anonymous~ beta for all the metaphorical handholding.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	3. Working Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen, you said it yourself. Your name, it’s unique, isn’t it? I would never have known it if I hadn’t already met you before.” Crowley tried to pitch his voice lower, to make it more soothing. “You recognise me, I know you do. You even got my name right. You just haven’t realised it yet.”
> 
> Crowley couldn’t remember how or why, but he knew it was true. He could feel it in his bones. He had known it since the moment Aziraphale had taken the bar stool next to him. This wasn’t just attraction, or chemistry, or whatever idiotic name they were calling it these days – this was something that more closely resembled gravity, some inexorable force that drew them together but also held them apart.
> 
> “You asked me once before, to give you something to remember.” Crowley stepped forward, caught Aziraphale’s warm hands in his own. “M’not drunk now, Aziraphale. Will you let me show you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW alcohol, cigarettes, sex. Mind the updated rating and tags! If you'd rather not read the smut, stop at the part where Aziraphale tugs off Crowley's jeans, start again at "thank you."

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

Crowley stood at the door of his new flat, staring vacantly at his belongings scattered all over the place. He _hated_ clutter. He sighed to himself. This was by far the worst part of moving, having to get everything back in order all over again.

A clumping sound came from the staircase, and as he turned, a middle-aged couple made their way downstairs, the wife fussing over her husband’s scarf, her husband gruffly assuring her he was warm enough.

“Oh!” The woman started when she saw Crowley. “Mr. Shadwell, our new neighbour!”

Did she just call her own husband _Mr. Shadwell?_

She hurried down the stairs to take Crowley’s hand in both of her own, a bright smile on her face.

“Welcome, dearie. We’ve been waiting for someone to move into that flat for ages. My name is Tracy. My husband Mr. Shadwell and I live in the flat upstairs.”

“Er, right.” Crowley was slightly confused at the warmth of this introduction. “I’m Crowley.”

“It’s Sergeant Shadwell to you, boy.” Tracy’s husband stood behind her, foot tapping impatiently.

“I’ll be there in a minute, love. Now, Crowley dear, if you need anything, let us know anytime. Come have tea with us when you’re all settled in, alright?”

“I don’t know about that,” her husband muttered. “Have you checked how many nipples he has?”

Crowley blinked behind his dark sunglasses.

“I’ve… only got the two.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright then.” Shadwell brightened considerably and extended his hand for Crowley to shake.

\--

**Wednesday 23 October 2019, 8:00 PM**

“Now, I hope you won’t mind an old woman prying, but have you got any plans for this Friday?”

Crowley had no idea how he ended up here, but Tracy was clearing the table after their meal, having waved off all offers of help from Crowley.

“Don’t think so,” Crowley answered. “Why?”

“A dear friend of mine is opening a new bar just a few blocks down from here.”

Shadwell belched loudly, interrupting her. She slapped him on the knee with a glare.

“We’ve got company!”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, raising his mug of dark beer to Crowley before taking another gulp.

“Anyway, since you’re new to the neighbourhood, I thought I’d tell you about it,” Tracy continued. “Lots of people going too, so you can get acquainted. It’ll be a fun crowd. She knows how to throw a party.”

“Sounds alright, I guess. Are you going?”

“Bit too old for that now, don’t you think?”

“No such thing,” Crowley said, grinning.

“Don’t flatter me.” Tracy smiled. “Besides, look at the state of my _dear_ husband.”

She nudged Shadwell with her foot. When he glowered at her, she only laughed. What an odd couple they were, Crowley thought, puzzled at how different they were from each other, and yet somehow it seemed to work. Complementary rather than dissonant. 

“Oh, nearly forgot our tea.”

Tracy got up and bustled to the little kitchen, returning with a tray of two steaming white mugs with saucers and setting the tray down carefully on the table.

“Now, where on earth did I leave my tea strainer?” She tutted and hurried back to the kitchen.

“On the counter, near the sink!” Shadwell called to her over his shoulder. “And your tea leaves are here on the table!”

Crowley looked at the mugs. Weird-looking handles, he thought. He surreptitiously turned the saucer in his direction to see that the handle was delicately shaped like a pair of feathered wings.

A sudden pain went through Crowley’s head, and his hand jerked involuntarily. He yelped as the hot water spilled over his hand and the table, narrowly missing his legs. Gingerly, he picked up the white mug and set it back upright. Somehow, touching the mug scalded him more than the hot water did.

“You alright there, laddie?” Shadwell got to his feet, a look of concern on his face. “Better go run some water from the tap over that hand.”

“Oh, no. Come here, Crowley.” Tracy beckoned to him and turned on the tap in the kitchen sink as he held his hand under the running water, cool as a balm against his burned skin.

“Sorry about the mess,” Crowley muttered. “I’ll clean it up.”

“Not to worry. Mr. Shadwell will take care of it, won’t you, Mr. Shadwell?”

Crowley could hear Shadwell grumbling as Tracy rolled her eyes and smiled at Crowley.

“There’s more hot water in the kettle, so we can still have our tea.” She was eyeing Crowley with a sharp gaze in her eyes. “Are you quite alright, dearie?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.” Crowley said automatically.

“If you’re sure.” Tracy pursed her lips. “You stay here, keep that hand under the water for a few minutes. I’ll fix us some tea. Come back when you’re ready.”

She left the kitchen, and Crowley could hear her conversing with Shadwell in a low voice. He stared at his hand, his gaze unseeing. What was that strange feeling he had gotten when he saw the mug? It was almost as though he had seen it somewhere else before. He tried to remember. It was maddening, like having a word right on the tip of his tongue.

He exhaled and turned off the tap, drying his hand carefully on a tea towel before returning to the sitting room, where Tracy was waiting for him.

“Mr. Shadwell says to tell you he’s feeling quite tired, so it’s just you and me, pet. How’s your hand?”

Crowley allowed her to take his hand and examine it closely, her touch soft and warm against the tenderness of the reddened skin.

“S’alright, I think. Sorry for making a mess.”

“No trouble at all,” Tracy said airily, pulling the milk and sugar closer to them. “Now, how do you take your tea?”

“Erm. Just plain is fine.”

Tracy looked like she was about to protest, but she smiled instead and gently pushed the mug of tea closer to him. He gazed at it for a moment, lost in thought. _White_ _wings, like a –_ his thoughts were interrupted by another twinge of pain.

“I haven’t poisoned that tea, you know.” A crease was forming between Tracy’s eyebrows as she watched Crowley.

“Sorry,” Crowley said again, pulling the mug closer to him by its strange handle. “Just reminded me of something.”

“Something good, I hope?”

“Not sure I can remember, really.”

Crowley raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. He was more of a coffee drinker himself, but the fragrant tea was surprisingly soothing to his frayed nerves, warming him from the inside out.

“Would you like me to read your tea leaves, dearie?” Tracy asked suddenly. “You might learn something helpful.”

“You know how to do that?” Crowley looked at her, his eyebrow raised.

“I know how to do a great many things.” She smiled at him conspiratorially. “Of course, I’m retired now, but I like to keep my hand in. You never know when it might be useful.”

“Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

Crowley was fairly sceptical of fortune telling, but he shrugged to himself. At worst, he’d have to nod along to whatever she had to say for a few minutes, no harm done. He obediently drank his tea, leaving the dregs of liquid and leaves in the bottom before pushing his saucer and mug back towards Tracy.

He was quite impressed to see how she slipped into a completely different air from the capable housewife she had been the past hour and a half – she had gone quite still, her face serious, concentrating on the mug. She swirled the contents of the mug, holding the winged handle with her left hand, before turning the mug onto the saucer upside down.

“There,” she said quietly. “Now we wait for a bit.”

“And then what?”

“Then we see what your tea leaves have to say. Did you have anything in particular you wanted to know about?”

Crowley considered it for a moment, then shook his head. Most likely he’d been imagining the whole thing with the mug, anyway. Probably nothing at all.

“Guess I’ll just hear whatever they’ve got to say.”

Tracy nodded and picked up the mug. The last of the tea had dripped out onto the saucer, leaving only the tea leaves behind. She stared at it intently, her brow furrowed, turning the cup around slowly a few times.

After a long moment, Crowley started feeling rather uneasy about the whole business. But just as he opened his mouth, Tracy spoke suddenly.

“Strange,” she said, her voice musing. “I’ve never seen tea leaves like this before, and I’ve read plenty of them in my time.”

“What is it?”

“Well, for one thing, most of it is completely unintelligible, but there are two symbols right here that I can see clear as day.”

“What are they?”

Tracy reached over, holding the mug out to him with an odd look on her face.

“Do you want to take a look?”

Crowley took the mug and stared at its contents, even lifting his sunglasses slightly to see better, but all he could see were the remnants of his tea leaves scattered around the sides and bottom of the mug.

“Er, not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at here.”

Tracy got up and peered into the mug.

“Oh, goodness. You’re holding it upside down, no wonder you can’t see it.”

She took it carefully and turned it the right way up.

“There. Right next to each other. An angel and a serpent.”

Crowley took another look at the mug, but try as he might, he couldn’t tell one patch of tea leaves from another.

“Sorry. Guess I’m not cut out for this occult thing.” He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling a little embarrassed for some reason.

“Not to worry. I was just curious if you’d be able to see it too.”

“So, what does it mean?” Crowley asked as Tracy settled back into her chair.

“Well, generally, the serpent is interpreted as bad luck,” Tracy said cautiously. “But I think with the angel, it should all be balanced out, because the angel is a portent for good news.”

“Oh. Suppose it all works out, then.”

“The angel can a sign for good news in _love-related matters_ , by the way.” Tracy winked at him. “Now you have another reason to go to that party on Friday, don’t you think?”

\--

**Friday 25 October 2019, 9:00 PM**

Crowley sat at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, his senses heightened by the familiar rush of alcohol. After Anathema had heard that Tracy had told him to come by, she’d promptly pulled out an expensive 1995 Yamazaki and poured him a generous portion herself.

“No, no, it’s on the house,” Anathema insisted. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Tracy. Straight, neat, or on the rocks? I’m not mixing this with anything else, it would be a blasphemy.”

“On the rocks, then,” Crowley mumbled, embarrassed. She beamed at him.

“Hey, thanks for dropping by. Welcome to the neighbourhood! Come on, I’ll get you properly introduced.”

They went through a dizzying round of introductions to what felt like over forty different people. He’d smiled and nodded but couldn’t remember a single name or face. Tracy wasn’t kidding when she said Anathema knew how to throw a party, but Crowley had never been one for big crowds. He’d excused himself to sit at the bar, somewhat overwhelmed by Anathema’s exuberance.

“Pardon me. Is this seat taken?”

He turned his head at the polite voice, which sounded rather out of place at a bar like this filled with people laughing and chatting boisterously.

“No, go ahead.”

Crowley watched the other man curiously as he settled himself on the bar stool, looking expectantly for the bartender and ordering a glass of cabernet sauvignon. He turned his head to see Crowley staring, and for some inexplicable reason, he smiled.

A jolt of pain ran through Crowley’s head, and he nearly dropped the glass of whiskey he held, feeling as though he had received an electric shock.

“Are you alright?” The man asked, looking at Crowley with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, looking away quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He took a large sip of his whiskey. His heart was beating hard for some reason, and he was painfully aware of the few inches that separated him from the man that sat next to him. Crowley watched him out of the corner of his eye as he thanked the bartender for his wine, passing over a hefty tip. Crowley had an eerie feeling that they had met before, but he couldn’t place him at all.

“I hear Tracy’s made a new friend. That wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”

Crowley turned to look at him, surprised.

“You know Tracy?”

“Oh, yes. She is a dear friend of mine, you know.” He sniffed his wine delicately and made an appreciative noise before taking a sip. “Mm. Delicious. Anathema’s taste in wine is unmatched. You’ve met her, I presume?”

“Yeah, a while ago. She’s over there somewhere,” Crowley said, waving in the direction of the crowd.

“Yes, quite the impressive turnout tonight. I’m very happy for her.”

“Yeah. She went around and introduced me a while ago, but… it was a bit much.”

Crowley was flapping his hand around vaguely again. Why was he being so bloody _awkward?_ He could feel the heat creeping up his face, and he determinedly turned to face the bar, ostensibly to watch the bartender mixing a cocktail.

“I know what you mean. This isn’t my usual kind of place either.”

That startled a laugh out of Crowley. What an understatement for this man with his refined accent and his waistcoat and his tightly buttoned-up shirt. He was wearing an actual tartan _bow tie_ , for fuck’s sake.

“So, what exactly is a posh man like you doing in a place like this?”

The man smiled at that, though Crowley could see that his cheeks were flushed faintly pink. Crowley grinned to himself, pleased. Already, he was more than a little interested in seeing where this was going to go.

“Tracy insisted I drop by tonight.”

“Did she, now?”

“She also insisted… that I introduce myself to you.”

Crowley choked on his whiskey, internally cursing himself for ever agreeing to let Tracy look at his tea leaves. He coughed hard, clearing his throat, and he could feel his face burning.

“She _what?”_

“She wouldn’t explain herself either. I thought maybe you’d be able to tell me.”

“Nope. Haven’t got a clue,” Crowley mumbled, taking another sip of whiskey to distract himself from his mortification.

“Well, it isn’t much of an introduction if you don’t tell me your name.”

“Thought Tracy said that _you_ had to introduce yourself to me?” Crowley raised an eyebrow at him.

“I think I’ve already done my part in taking the seat beside you,” he answered primly, taking a sip of wine.

Crowley blinked. Was this… flirting? And why couldn’t he get his mind off those blessed _tea leaves?_

“Fine, have it your way,” Crowley finally said, an amused smile rising to his lips. “Don’t tell me your name, and I won’t tell you mine.”

“I suppose I’ll have to think of a name to call you, then.” He looked at Crowley thoughtfully, considering him. “I think… you look like an Anthony.”

It took all of Crowley’s self-control not to give himself away, and he was suddenly grateful for his sunglasses. Out of the countless names that existed in the world, somehow, he managed to guess Crowley’s first name correctly? What were the odds? Crowley looked him over, suddenly curious. Maybe they _had_ met before, and Crowley just hadn’t recognised him yet. Well, then he’d play along for a while longer.

“Alright, I’ll accept Anthony,” he said, thinking hard. “In that case, I’ll call you Raphael.”

Crowley saw his eyebrows contract slightly, and he smirked. That was a tell if he ever saw one.

“I don’t think I got it right, but I’m willing to bet I’m pretty close. Aren’t I?” Crowley challenged.

“Are we going to spend this evening trying to guess the most absurd things about one another?”

“That doesn’t sound half bad, if you ask me.” Crowley’s expression softened despite himself, because there it was again, that beautiful blinding smile.

\--

**Saturday 26 October 2019, 2:00 AM**

“Hey, I’m going to head out for a bit.” The words were slurring together on Crowley’s tongue. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“Only sometimes.”

“C’mon, I could… use the company.”

With difficulty, Crowley somehow managed to get off the bar stool. Somehow, even at this time of night, the bar was still full. The noise pressed against his eardrums dimly, the thudding of the music echoing through his limbs. He gazed around with bleary eyes until he finally located the entrance, his legs swaying beneath him.

“Dear boy, you can barely stand.”

He was startled to feel a hand between his shoulder blades guiding him outside. Even through the haze of the alcohol he was surprised at the strength of that hand, keeping him upright as though his weight were of no consequence. He was led into a stairwell only dimly lit by a streetlamp above, the door banging shut behind them.

Crowley leaned heavily against the wall, registering somewhere in his mind that the hand on his back slipped down somewhat and lingered for a few moments longer than it should, but he couldn’t seem to open his mouth to object.

He gazed at the door to the bar for a moment, vaguely impressed at how well it insulated the sound – the stairwell was nearly silent, and they were the only people there. He tugged his silver cigarette case out of the pocket of his tight black jeans, struggling to find the clasp with his numb fingers.

The part of his mind that was still rational briefly considered how ridiculous this was, a scene right out of his twenties back in the day, drunk in a bar at this time of night with a man he’d only just met. An even smaller part of his mind forced him to stay watchful, hidden as they were in the secluded darkness of the stairwell, remembering the strength of the hand that had lingered on his back and led him out here where they were alone.

“Here, let me.”

The cigarette case was gently taken from Crowley’s hands with a touch that made him shiver.

“Y – you can have one if you want one,” Crowley said, struggling to form the words around the weight of his tongue. “Here, I’ve got a lighter.”

He managed to extract the lighter from his pocket, felt once more the softness of those fingers brush against his own to take it from him. He heard the familiar metallic click as it was flicked open, the scratch of the flint wheel igniting the wick with a soft yellow-blue flame. He bent forward, the ends of the two cigarettes brushing together lightly as they both leaned in toward the little flame, shielded from the wind by the hand cupped around it. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, tilting his face up to blow the smoke upwards out of the stairwell.

The stairwell was dark enough that Crowley decided he could take off his sunglasses, tucking them clumsily into the deep V of his shirt. His lit cigarette glowed brightly against the shadows. He could see the matching glow across the stairwell from him illuminating a pair of blue eyes bright with alcohol, a gaze fixed on his face so intently that it bordered on hunger, raking down Crowley’s body with a heat that burned. The thrill it sent through Crowley had a strange edge to it, almost like fear, as those eyes flicked back up to meet his.

“How are you feeling?”

“M’alright. Could do another round.” Crowley inhaled and blew out slowly, the motion of habit giving him space to gather his thoughts even through the rush of nicotine. “You?”

“Me too. Though I think I might be somewhat more sober than you.”

Crowley glared at the amused tone in his voice.

“I _said_ I was alright.”

His hand hung loosely by his side, his cigarette quite forgotten as he watched the glow of the other cigarette brighten with an inhale, the faint glow catching the smoke as it was exhaled from parted lips, and suddenly, it was as though Crowley was moving by instinct, without conscious thought.

His lit cigarette dropped to the ground, unheeded. Crowley reached up to pull the cigarette from slightly parted lips, leaning forward – but suddenly, there was a solid hand against his chest, holding him firmly away.

“No.”

The force of that one word struck Crowley hard, an even harsher blow than the hand on his chest that pushed him back. How many times had he heard that _no_ before? He took a few unsteady steps away, his throat suddenly tight.

“You’re… not interested.” Crowley’s eyes searched his face, bewildered.

Maybe it was the liquor amplifying the burn in his chest, the sudden pain reverberating in his head. The only thing he could process was the thought of being refused. That he had been refused so many times before by that very same voice. Once upon a time, Crowley would have accepted it, contented himself with whatever he was given. But now, even with his senses dulled by alcohol, he decided at last he had had _enough_.

He turned without another word and walked unsteadily up the stairs, his hand braced against the wall to keep himself upright, a series of images flooding his mind that were so familiar they felt oddly like memories.

It was curious how familiar the sting of this rejection was, as though the searing bite of its venom had coursed through his body many times before. How he had been told no by that voice so many times that he’d heard every iteration of it there was. _You’re being ridiculous. We have nothing whatsoever in common._ His mind flung one last echo at him, freezing the blood in his veins. _I don’t even like you._

“Where are you going?”

Crowley ignored him, shutting out the strange echoes in his mind, resolutely forcing his legs up the stairs step by heavy step until he had made his way back to the sidewalk, heading in what he deeply hoped was the correct direction to his flat. He shivered, and not just from the cold, his arms wrapping tightly around himself, dizzy with alcohol and anxiety. He could hear footsteps coming up behind him.

“Wait, please. Anthony.”

Crowley kept walking, willing himself forward, trying not to trip on the uneven pavement, his mouth grimly clamped shut.

“I’m sorry.” The words were a little more desperate now, more breathless. “I didn’t mean to push you away.”

A warm hand touched his arm, and he pulled away. He wanted to lean into it, wanted it _so much_ , but not like this.

“I – I am interested! Very much so.”

At last, Crowley stopped, but he didn’t turn around. He trembled with cold where he stood, waiting.

To his surprise, a coat was draped over his shoulders, enveloping him in the body warmth of its owner. A pair of hands tucked the coat in more securely around his neck, fussing with the collar, more gently than Crowley could have imagined.

“You’ll catch your death of cold.” The hands tightened around the lapels of the coat. “I only meant… you’re very drunk, my dear. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Crowley said nothing. His insides felt numb, his mind heavy with thoughts he could barely understand.

“How about we go for a walk? There’s a convenience store nearby, maybe you’ll feel better with a bit of water and food.”

\--

**Saturday 26 October 2019, 3:30 AM**

The harsh fluorescent light of the convenience store was odd after the dim glow of the past few hours. Crowley sat at a table, sipping alternately from a bottle of water and an energy drink.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Crowley muttered, feeling more than a little uncomfortable about his fit of temper now that he had sobered up a bit. “Look, I’m –”

“You had better not be telling me you’re sorry.”

Crowley opened his mouth, shut it again.

“I’d like to walk you home, if that’s alright.” A warm hand came up, covered his own hand on the table tentatively. “Just to make sure that you make it back to your flat.”

For a moment, Crowley considered refusing. But seeing the anxiety in those blue eyes, he finally relented.

\--

**Saturday 26 October 2019, 4:00 AM**

Now that the haze of alcohol had cleared up somewhat, a thought suddenly occurred to him, accompanied by a throbbing ache in his head. Something about that was odd, but he filed that thought away for later, because now he could think – and he finally recalled the name of the man who walked next to him, Crowley’s hand tucked securely into the crook of his arm.

“I remember now,” Crowley murmured. “And I _did_ nearly get your name right.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

Crowley tugged them to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, suddenly feeling as though he couldn’t let another second go by without saying it.

“Your name. I know it.”

“Impossible, my dear,” he laughed. “You’ll find my name is unique, and I highly doubt you’ll have ever heard it without having met me before –”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as the name left his lips, feeling as though he had uttered something at once sacred and profane.

Aziraphale’s head whipped up, a look of shock on his face.

“How did you –”

“I know it because I know you,” Crowley said, feverish with an anguish he couldn’t understand. “Aziraphale, you know who I am. _Think_. You have to remember.”

But Aziraphale was already starting to pull away from him, his eyes wide with disbelief. Crowley panicked, hearing the echo of a voice in his head. _It’s over._ He tried to pull himself together, make himself more palatable. Suddenly, he was grateful for Aziraphale’s coat slung around his shoulders concealing the too-thin lines of his body. Maybe the less he seemed like himself, the more acceptable Aziraphale would find him.

“Listen, you said it yourself. Your name, it’s unique, isn’t it? I would never have known it if I hadn’t already met you before.” He tried to pitch his voice lower, to make it more soothing. “You recognise me, I know you do. You even got my name right. You just haven’t realised it yet.”

Crowley couldn’t remember how or why, but he knew it was true. He could feel it in his bones. He had known it since the moment Aziraphale had taken the bar stool next to him. This wasn’t just attraction, or chemistry, or whatever idiotic name they were calling it these days – this was something that more closely resembled gravity, some inexorable force that drew them together but also held them apart.

“You asked me once before, to give you something to remember.” He stepped forward, caught Aziraphale’s warm hands in his own. “M’not drunk now, Aziraphale. Will you let me show you?”

Aziraphale gazed at him, and Crowley could see the shadow of fear in his eyes. For a split second, his chest constricted at the thought that Aziraphale would refuse him yet _again_. But he quickly felt Aziraphale’s hands squeeze around his own in wordless assent.

Crowley stepped closer, wondering if Aziraphale could feel the drumming of his heart against his ribs. All of a sudden, indecision gripped him by the throat. He didn’t know how many times this had happened before, but he was suddenly certain that it had. He was also certain that he had always been the one who was kissed – and that now, for the first time, he was going to be the one to kiss Aziraphale.

“Is this… alright?” Crowley whispered, his face inches from Aziraphale’s.

For a moment, though the street was only softly lit by moonlight and streetlamps, he saw Aziraphale’s face bathed in neon, pink and orange and yellow marking the shadows and highlights of his face. But when he blinked, it was gone.

There was another warm squeeze around Crowley’s hands as Aziraphale nodded minutely. Crowley could see his chest rising and falling, hear his breaths coming unevenly, and was unexpectedly encouraged by the fact that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale was as nervous as he was.

He leaned down and pressed his lips softly against Aziraphale’s, nothing more than a gentle touch of lips. But just as he was about to pull away, Aziraphale’s arms were around him, holding him close, a name breathed against his lips like a prayer.

“Oh, Crowley.”

\--

**Saturday 26 October 2019, 4:30 AM**

Somehow, they were in Crowley’s flat, and he was suddenly mortified at the thought of Aziraphale seeing the chaos of his belongings, his life strewn about everywhere. He should have scrubbed the walls, polished the floor until it gleamed, hidden everything away in the cabinets and drawers where no one could see them.

“I’ve just moved in,” he said, his face burning, unable to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“I know.” There was a hint of amusement threading through Aziraphale’s voice. “It’s perfectly understandable. You should see my flat.”

Warm hands cupped Crowley’s jaw, turning his face gently so that Aziraphale was looking at him squarely in the eye. Crowley didn’t know how it was possible to turn even redder, but there he was, blushing under Aziraphale’s gaze like a besotted teenager.

“What?”

“Kiss me again, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on his lips, and he shivered. “I rather liked it.”

It was easier now that there was an invitation. Crowley leaned forward and their lips met, slotting perfectly into place. Suddenly, it was as though every inch where their bodies touched was charged with electricity, running like a current through Crowley’s body, sharper and sweeter than the numbing sloth of alcohol.

Now they were in Crowley’s bedroom, stumbling in the shadows over their own shoes on the floor, Aziraphale’s coat pulled from Crowley’s shoulders and draped haphazardly on a chair. Aziraphale’s lips were urgent now, one hand pressing insistently against the small of Crowley’s back, the other caressing his nape, a thumb running down the back of his ear and making him shiver. Aziraphale kissed him like he was _starved,_ as though he had been served a feast that would be taken from him any moment.

And it dawned on Crowley that that was exactly what was going to happen. Reluctantly, he pulled away from Aziraphale, smiling ruefully despite himself at how Aziraphale leaned forward immediately to kiss him again. He submitted to one more kiss before extricating himself from Aziraphale’s arms.

“Aziraphale, how much do you remember?”

Crowley watched as the question sank into Aziraphale’s mind.

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said after a moment, lifting his eyes to Crowley’s and fixing him with that clear-eyed gaze of his. Crowley wondered suddenly what colour his eyes really were – in the gloom, they were hues of grey, the sea before an impending storm.

“You remember who I am, don’t you? Do you remember when you last saw me?”

“I think it was –” Aziraphale winced suddenly. “I remember I kissed you,” he whispered, the flush on his face darkening. “Anything before that, they’re all just… I don’t know what to call them, impressions? I don’t understand them – I think… was I wearing gloves?”

Crowley nodded. He wondered if Aziraphale remembered that the hands wearing those gloves had been wrapped around his throat.

“But do you remember what happened after?”

Aziraphale was straining to remember, Crowley could see, and already he was enormously relieved to know he wasn’t making it up in his head. Their memories matched up at some point, though for some reason Aziraphale didn’t seem to remember as much as he did.

“No, but I think you said something about… getting separated,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Why don’t I remember?”

He looked at Crowley, his forehead creased with concern. Crowley couldn’t help himself – he reached up, tried to smooth the wrinkles away with his fingertips.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember much either. Or at least, not much of it makes sense.”

“What happened to us?”

“We were separated,” Crowley said simply. “And I think it’s happened more than once.”

“How? And why? When did that happen?”

“I don’t know, Aziraphale.” Crowley was helpless in the face of Aziraphale’s confusion, the fear and uncertainty of this unbelievable predicament they were in threatening to pull him under. “I can only make sense of some of it. One time, you were at an art gallery. Another time, you were at the park… feeding ducks?”

“But I didn’t meet you until just a few hours ago,” Aziraphale whispered, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

“That’s also true,” Crowley admitted. “But we both remember some of it, don’t we?”

“Crowley, if they were real, that means they really happened. We have memories of those things because they happened to us.”

“Guess so.” A long exhale left Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale stood gazing at him for a long moment, his face unreadable. To Crowley’s surprise, he suddenly leaned forward, his lips capturing Crowley’s once more, intent and possessive, the heat of it burning through Crowley, thoroughly distracting him from his thoughts. Fingers tugged at the waistcoat he wore, undoing the buttons deftly, pushing it off his shoulders. He shivered at the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands touching him under the hem of his shirt.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yes,” Crowley breathed. “More than alright.”

He helped Aziraphale tug the shirt off his head before Aziraphale pulled him into a crushing kiss, somehow even more urgent than before, hunger now edged with something more desperate. The back of his knees hit the mattress and gave way, and he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed with Aziraphale’s fingers buried in his hair, Aziraphale’s tongue exploring his mouth hungrily. Crowley growled in frustration, breaking the kiss to pluck in vain at the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Aziraphale laughed at Crowley and undid the buttons himself, draping it carefully over his coat on the chair.

Crowley reached up and tugged Aziraphale’s bow tie loose from its knot, feeling rather as though he were unwrapping a present and blushing wildly at the thought. Slowly, he unbuttoned Aziraphale’s shirt, revealing the white undershirt he wore underneath.

“Bloody hell, how many layers are you wearing?”

Aziraphale laughed.

“This is the last one, I promise.”

Off came the shirt and undershirt, and suddenly Crowley found himself on his back, Aziraphale heavy and warm on top of him, nudging his legs apart to push his knee between them. Crowley groaned against Aziraphale’s mouth at the friction, nearly overwhelmed at the sensation of so much warm skin against his own, too much and yet still not enough.

“Crowley, do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Crowley trembled at the words whispered in his ear, his toes curling into the blanket. Aziraphale’s lips travelled down the line of Crowley’s jaw and neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, finding a particularly sensitive spot near his ear and nipping at it as Crowley gasped, his hips bucking up helplessly. Aziraphale pulled away to look at Crowley, a burning look in his eyes.

“Tell me we’ve done this before. I – I don’t remember if we have.” Aziraphale looked distraught suddenly. The words left Crowley reeling, as though he had been punched hard in the stomach.

“No. We haven’t.” His voice rasped against the sudden tightness of his throat. “I think I would have remembered.”

Aziraphale’s hand traced a line down from Crowley’s chest and over his stomach in a gesture that seemed nearly reverential. He shook his head incredulously.

“You’re right. There’s no way I could ever forget that.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley again, and there were lines of pain tightening around his eyes. “Why – why haven’t we before?”

Somehow it was easier to speak in the half-light of Crowley’s bedroom, with only the light from the streetlamp outside illuminating Aziraphale’s face, his hair cast silver-white against the darkness.

“I don’t know,” Crowley murmured, running his fingers through the fine blonde hair. “But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

Aziraphale moved back up to kiss Crowley gently on the mouth. Crowley put his hand against Aziraphale’s chest and felt it heaving with shuddering breaths.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asked, alarmed.

“I – I wanted to. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how I could have kept away from you,” Aziraphale whispered, a slight hitch to his voice.

Crowley felt his chest squeeze painfully. For some reason, his eyes were burning. He didn’t know why, but hearing those words filled him with a nearly unbearable pain. _There is no “our side,”_ an echo whispered in his head, _not anymore._

“Crowley… what if we get separated again?”

At last it was said out loud, the question that Crowley had been dwelling on endlessly for the past hour. He sighed, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek with his hand.

“I don’t know, Aziraphale.”

“If it does happen, will you come find me again?” Aziraphale gripped his wrist tightly, his eyes wide and oddly bright even in the dim light.

“Yeah. Of course. Wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”

“And if I don’t remember…”

“I’ll remind you.”

“Crowley, if we do this now, I want to remember it.” Aziraphale laid his cheek against Crowley’s chest, as if to feel his heart beating. “But please… don’t hold it against me if I don’t.”

“I won’t, I promise. I’d never.” Crowley’s throat had closed up entirely. He carded his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, trying to pull himself together. “S’not so bad, right? It could be our first time again.”

Aziraphale made a sad disbelieving laugh. When he bent over to kiss Crowley gently, Crowley could feel the moisture on his cheeks, but he couldn’t tell if they were Aziraphale’s or his own.

Was he right? Would this really the first time? He wondered how many other firsts they had had together already, all washed away into nothingness by each separation.

“How much more time do you think we have?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Who knows?”

Crowley could see it in Aziraphale’s face again, that intent gaze overflowing with want, with hunger, with thirst, pain and joy and longing swirling together in the tempest of his eyes. Suddenly, Aziraphale’s lips were fierce against his own, his arm tight around Crowley’s waist, and Crowley let out a gasp at the sudden heat of it, his skin on fire under Aziraphale’s relentless touch, the strength of his hands undoing Crowley’s belt and tugging it neatly out of the loops. A warm hand palmed at Crowley through his trousers, and a moan ripped itself from his throat.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Aziraphale murmured, his mouth doing something in the vicinity of Crowley’s clavicle that was making it nearly impossible to think, let alone speak.

“Don’t stop –” Crowley finally gasped, pulling fruitlessly at Aziraphale’s belt. “Why are your clothes so _bloody impossible?”_

Aziraphale clicked his tongue.

“I’d have thought you’d be good at this sort of thing,” he whispered, biting Crowley’s earlobe lightly as he squirmed.

Aziraphale sat up, straddling Crowley’s hips. Crowley watched as he slowly undid his belt, tugging it free before unzipping his trousers and tugging them off impatiently. When Crowley lifted his eyes to Aziraphale’s face and saw the smirk that curved on his lips, Crowley suddenly realised that his mouth had been hanging open and closed it quickly.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Crowley scowled. “If you’re so good at this, let’s see you try and take my trousers off.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale still looked so impossibly smug. Crowley wanted to kiss it right off his face. “I don’t need to try. You’ll do it yourself, won’t you? Be good for me and take them off.”

The heat seared in Crowley’s stomach as Aziraphale moved off him, his fingers skimming down Crowley’s chest and the dark red down that led into Crowley’s trousers as he watched Crowley, his gaze intent with hunger. Crowley could feel his face burning hot, but already his fingers were moving, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling his zip down, but then he stopped, breathing hard, his heart suddenly pounding.

“Aziraphale –”

“What is it?” Aziraphale’s hand brushed over the line of his jaw. “Do you want to stop? Tell me if you want to stop.”

“No, I –”

The sound of his own pulse was so loud in his ears that he could barely hear anything else. He had a vague impression of Aziraphale smoothing his hair away from his forehead.

“My dear.”

Crowley’s breath was coming fast and shallow, his chest tightening painfully.

“You’re alright. It’s going to be alright. I’m here.”

Crowley felt the bed shift as Aziraphale lowered himself beside him, gathering up the jagged angles of Crowley’s body into his arms. Aziraphale held Crowley tightly as he struggled to breathe, his face buried against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he gasped out. “I just… I need a minute.”

He could feel Aziraphale’s lips on the crown of his head, his breath ruffling Crowley’s hair softly as he fought to control himself, Aziraphale’s hand rubbing slow circles on his back. He was suddenly struck once more by how absurd this all was. What the _hell_ was going on?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, as though he could hear what Crowley was thinking. “We’ll talk about it some more later. I promise. But for now – please –”

Crowley was lost in the headiness of Aziraphale’s lips on his own, his hands roaming all over Crowley’s body.

“Crowley – I don’t know if we’ll ever have this again.” Aziraphale’s voice was urgent now, his lips like a hot brand against Crowley’s skin, pressing a trail of burns down Crowley’s stomach. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I don’t remember much, but… I can feel that. I’ve always wanted you.”

It hurt less to hear it this time, Crowley thought, but he had to stare at the ceiling for a second to pull himself together, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Aziraphale’s hands were tugging at the waistband of his jeans, pulling them off his hips. Crowley was mildly impressed that Aziraphale had actually managed to peel them off, but then a loud moan escaped his mouth involuntarily as Aziraphale’s hand cupped the burning ache between his legs.

“But tell me if you want me to stop,” Aziraphale said again, the heat of his lips traveling down Crowley’s neck, his fingers reaching into Crowley’s pants to grasp him gently.

“No, don’t stop,” Crowley managed around the strangled moan in the back of his throat. It occurred to Crowley suddenly, even as he gasped for air, pleasure shuddering through every nerve of his body – how long had he been waiting for this to happen?

“Aziraphale –” He tugged at Aziraphale’s arm.

Aziraphale’s head lifted, looking at him with concern.

“Will you –”

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispered. “Anything you want. Tell me.”

“Kiss me,” Crowley said, his vision blurring suddenly, his voice growing tight. “Please.”

Aziraphale pushed himself up, the heavy weight of him draped over Crowley’s body as he turned Crowley’s face towards him and kissed him so soundly, he felt like he was being devoured. Aziraphale’s hand stroked Crowley, his mouth swallowing down the moans that were escaping from Crowley’s lips. Crowley reached down, wrapping his hand around the heat between Aziraphale’s legs as he groaned against Crowley’s mouth.

“Aziraphale, I want –”

“Anything.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were pinning him against the bed. He couldn’t say it. He tried, but no sound left his mouth. He growled in frustration and tried again.

“I want you – to –”

“Say it.”

Aziraphale’s fingers were pulling at him, the movement torturously slow. He felt as though all the blood had rushed between his legs, leaving no room for coherent thought in his mind.

“Mmph – _fuck me.”_

The hand around him stilled as a smile bloomed on Aziraphale’s face, though his eyes were fever bright.

“Yes. Whatever you want,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley reached up, groped for the handle of the corner table next to his bed to grab the half-empty bottle of lube inside, his fingers finding a pack of condoms. Aziraphale looked at the drawer then back at Crowley, his eyes darkening.

“You’ve been warming up for me.”

A short laugh left Crowley’s mouth, with only the faintest trace of real humour in it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been _waiting_.”

As soon as the words left his lips, he knew them to be true. He heard the hitch of breath in Aziraphale’s throat, the decidedly unromantic squelch of lube out of the bottle before blessedly cool fingers were touching him gently, tracing figure-eights into his skin, the temperature making him gasp.

“Is this okay?” Aziraphale asked, the crease returning between his eyebrows.

“Yes, yes, just _don’t stop.”_

Crowley moaned as a finger breached him, the burn of it sweet against the coolness of the finger in him. It felt strange at first – it had been so long. He forced himself to breathe deeply, a conscious effort to relax around Aziraphale as he stretched him slowly, inch by inch.

“One more,” Crowley gritted out, his mind already lost in the haze of sensation.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, one more, keep going – ah, _Aziraphale_.”

Crowley’s back arched as Aziraphale’s fingers curled inside him and brushed against a particularly sensitive spot, sending sudden waves of pleasure through his body, nearly overwhelming him.

“Right there, don’t stop. Aziraphale, one more,” he panted. “One more.”

He groaned at the burn of Aziraphale’s fingers pushing into him, the slow movement in and out of his body stretching him, every brush against that sensitive spot making him gasp aloud. The sensation was almost too much – everything so hot and tight and full all at once. Crowley cried out, pushing his hips against Aziraphale’s hand.

“Aziraphale, you blessed tease –”

“Ask me again.”

“You – Ah, fuck me. I’m ready. _Please,_ ” Crowley gasped out, his mind shorting out from the pleasure.

He felt bereft suddenly as Aziraphale pulled his fingers out slowly, but then he heard the sound of foil tearing, felt Aziraphale lining himself up against him, one hand gripping his thigh urgently.

“Crowley – if I hurt you –”

“You won’t.” Crowley was certain of it.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

Crowley growled in impatience, but a long moan was torn from his throat as Aziraphale pushed into him slowly, the burn of the stretch delicious, agony teetering on the tightrope of pain and pleasure. Aziraphale collapsed on his elbows bracketing Crowley’s face, moaning into his mouth, filling Crowley inch by inch until their hips were flush together and Crowley was panting for air, feeling as though he was about to be split in two.

“Breathe, love. You’re doing so well.”

What remaining oxygen was left in Crowley’s bedroom promptly left the building at Aziraphale’s words.

“You –”

The rest of his words were lost as Aziraphale reached down and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s length, pulling at him gently until only wordless moans were leaving Crowley’s mouth.

“Tell me you’re alright.”

“Yes. Yes. More than alright, Aziraphale, just fucking _move_ –“

The breath was pushed right out of Crowley’s mouth in a loud groan as Aziraphale’s hips snapped up against him.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Crowley breathed, barely able to keep his eyes open through the haze of pleasure. “You’re what I wanted, always – _ah_.“

The thrusts were slow, deep, driving a moan out of Crowley with every stroke. He tugged Aziraphale back down in a messy kiss, Aziraphale’s breath hot against Crowley’s lips.

“Crowley –”

“Is it good?”

“ _Yes._ So good. You feel so good, Crowley.”

Crowley shivered to see Aziraphale falling apart, his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself together to please Crowley, setting a relentless rhythm as Crowley writhed beneath him. Aziraphale adjusted himself, angled his hips until Crowley was breathless, moaning as Aziraphale thrust against the sensitive spot deep in him again and again.

For a moment Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, tried to memorise every detail of him – his eyes half-lidded and hazy, the flush of his face visible even in the half-light, the broadness of his shoulders, the softness of his hips. He had never known these things before, he thought suddenly as his hands mapped out Aziraphale’s thighs, the muscle like steel beneath a layer of softness. He could not allow this to be taken away from him.

“Don’t forget me, Aziraphale.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale down to him, kissed him like he was staking a claim even as he gasped for breath, lost in the headiness of sensation, hovering high up on the edge of a ledge. “Promise me,” he whispered.

“I won’t. Oh, my love. How could I ever?”

Crowley could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s gaze on him as his hand wrapped around Crowley once more, stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts until Crowley was coming hard, bright stars erupting before his eyes in what felt like an eternity of pleasure. Aziraphale fucked Crowley through it until his hips stuttered and he cried out, collapsing on top of Crowley, panting for breath.

They lay there for a few minutes, all sweat and warmth and drowsy pleasure, until Aziraphale pushed himself up, carefully withdrawing himself.

“Don’t move,” he said, pressing his lips to Crowley’s temple. “I’ll grab a towel.”

Crowley watched as he disappeared out the door, reappearing a few seconds later with a dark grey towel from Crowley’s bathroom. He was glad Aziraphale couldn’t see him blushing as he cleaned Crowley up with a gentle hand, the damp towel cool against his thighs.

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly. Aziraphale looked confused.

“For what?”

“For cleaning me up. For making sure I got home safely. For – all of it. Not thinking I was going crazy. I probably am, but if you don’t think so, that’s all I need to hear.”

“Oh, Crowley.” The pain on Aziraphale’s face was so clear for a moment that Crowley tugged him down on the pillow next to him.

“Hey, what is it? Tell me.”

“We’re still here, somehow.” Aziraphale whispered under the cover of darkness, the shadows lying neatly against his face. “Do you think anyone is watching us?”

Crowley’s throat closed up. This was one question that he somehow knew the answer to, felt it in his bones to be true.

“Whoever is watching us now, they sure don’t give a shit,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it, though.”

Aziraphale sighed, his fingers tracing over the sharp corners of Crowley’s face.

“Was that good?” Aziraphale asked suddenly.

“What?” The corner of Crowley’s mouth turned up. “Of course. It was amazing. So good I nearly forgot my own name.”

Aziraphale flinched, his hand suddenly gripping Crowley’s arm tightly.

“ _Don’t say that_.”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale trembling next to him, and his heart clenched. He pulled Aziraphale close until his head rested against Crowley’s shoulder, Crowley’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight. He thought of the way Aziraphale had kissed him, the desire edged with a strange desperate urgency.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing his lips against the blonde hair. “It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”

“Crowley, I can’t stop thinking about it,” Aziraphale whispered, his fingers tightening against Crowley’s hip. “I don’t want to forget this. Is it too much to hope for that nothing is going to happen?”

“Gotta be prepared for the worst, right?” Crowley exhaled slowly. “We’re going to figure it out, alright? You – you can stay here tonight. If you like. You should get some sleep before we do any more thinking.”

“But what if…”

Aziraphale’s hand tightened against Crowley’s hip, and Crowley knew what he was thinking – what if they were torn apart in their sleep? It didn’t bear thinking.

“I’ll stay up. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Crowley guessed that Aziraphale was more tired than he let on, and he was right – within minutes, Aziraphale was asleep, his head pillowed on Crowley’s chest, snoring lightly. Frankly, it was adorable. He stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the trees outside the window rustling in the wind, trying to push down the swell of panic in his chest.

He forced himself to breathe deeply, mindful of Aziraphale in his exhaustion, and tried to take stock of the situation as best he could. There was something strange happening, something to do with his strange headaches and the unexplainable things that were in his head, the certainty he felt that he knew Aziraphale as well as he knew himself despite the fact that they had only met earlier that night.

Crowley laid his cheek on the softness of Aziraphale’s curls, suddenly grateful at the thought that whatever this unbelievable thing was, Aziraphale at least had some vague recollection of him. He didn’t know how he could have borne it if Aziraphale hadn’t recognised him.

Concentrating, he tried to catalogue the things he could recall. One time, he and Aziraphale had met in an art gallery. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with… was that fear? In another, Aziraphale held up a beautifully iced cake, dotted with cherries, a smear of white icing on his cheek.

He tried to think about the others that were fuzzy around the edges. There was one where he sat across Aziraphale at what looked like an extremely expensive hotel, official-looking documents spread out all over the table. But for some reason, he couldn’t clearly picture Aziraphale’s face. He wondered once more – what colour were Aziraphale’s eyes, really? It was so hard to tell in the darkness.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus on the ones that were particularly difficult for him to recall, the ones that always gave him a pounding headache to think of. For some reason, in those ones, Aziraphale was the only thing that he could ever see clearly. But right now, the only one he could remember was Aziraphale sitting in a car, holding a flask patterned in plaid. Aziraphale looked exhausted, his face drawn and sad.

Crowley shut his eyes, fatigued from the effort, a steady throb already beginning at the back of his head. He needed to tell Aziraphale about this, he thought drowsily, and before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep.

\--

**Saturday 26 October 2019, 8:44 AM**

Crowley woke abruptly, exactly a minute before his daily alarm. For a moment, he was disoriented, a second of panic when he realised that there was someone else in his bed before he remembered – Aziraphale had spent the night at his flat, and he was still fast asleep, his limbs wrapped tightly around Crowley as though he were a pillow, his breathing soft and measured.

He watched Aziraphale for a moment, reluctant to disturb him, his face quiet in sleep. _Remember this,_ he thought to himself, as he brushed Aziraphale’s cheek with the back of his fingers lightly.

“Aziraphale,” he murmured. “Time to wake up.”

A soft noise left Aziraphale’s lips as he stirred, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he blinked his eyes open. Crowley tensed as Aziraphale sat up suddenly, a look of alarm on his face.

“Aziraphale, it’s me. You’re in my flat.”

Aziraphale looked around at him, the bewildered look of shock giving way as his expression softened, blinking sleepily as he rubbed at his eyes.

“So sorry, my dear. Good morning.”

Crowley had forgotten to draw the blinds before he went to bed like he usually did, and now the morning sun was pouring in through the window, framing Aziraphale’s face with a light so bright he was nearly glowing, his crown of light blonde hair nearly white.

“Good morning, angel.”

Aziraphale bent over to kiss him lightly, and for a moment, Crowley was overwhelmed at the thought that this was actually happening – that Aziraphale had spent the night with him, and that he had woken up next to Aziraphale, and now he was being kissed in his bed in the soft light of the morning.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare toothbrush, would you?”

“Yeah. ‘Course, hang on.”

Crowley managed to crawl out of bed through sheer force of will, digging through his bag of toiletries in one of the boxes he still had yet to finish unpacking, finally retrieving a toothbrush wrapped in plastic. He knocked on the bathroom door and Aziraphale opened it, and they stood side by side in Crowley’s tiny bathroom brushing their teeth, and it was all so ridiculously domestic that Crowley could hardly believe that it wasn’t all just a dream. He kept glancing up at the mirror, as though to check that Aziraphale was really there next to him.

 _Remember this,_ his mind kept repeating _._ The two toothbrushes next to each other in the cup on the sink, one red, one blue, so close together the bristles were nearly touching, but not quite. A second towel hung up on the rack. Aziraphale wearing one of Crowley’s old shirts, only buttoned halfway. Crowley ran his fingers down the exposed skin of Aziraphale’s chest in wonder, willing himself to hold onto the sensation of the fine light down, to remember the way Aziraphale cupped his face to kiss him, an arm firmly encircled around his waist.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley reached up, put his arms around Aziraphale’s neck.

“What is it, my dear?”

“What if – what if this is all the time we get?”

Aziraphale stilled, his distance fixed at some faraway point in the distance for a few seconds before he looked at Crowley again. His eyes were grey, but also blue, with a little bit of green, now that Crowley could see him clearly in the daylight.

“What do you want to do?” Aziraphale asked, his voice just a little above a whisper, his arms tightening around Crowley.

All of a sudden, Crowley realised he didn’t want to spend what time they had left on dwelling on this strange thing that was happening to them, didn’t want to waste what might be their last few minutes together thinking about the moment that they would be separated.

“Can we just – stay here?”

For a long moment, Aziraphale simply gazed at him, saying nothing. Then he reached up, his hand guiding Crowley’s head down to rest on his shoulder.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nodded. For a moment, he shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, committing to memory the way Aziraphale smelled, just a hint of Crowley’s mint toothpaste and the underlying scent of Aziraphale that was all warmth and musk and wood.

“Yeah. Just a bit longer.”

He felt Aziraphale rest his cheek on his head, pulling him even closer. They stood there silently holding each other as the boxes and furniture and all the clutter in Crowley’s flat slowly disappeared from sight, leaving them in an empty room, the darkness flooding in through the window as the flat faded into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I needed a meet-cute in a bar, because of reasons. 
> 
> We're moving on from the quick time-lapse lives as the story progresses! Thank you to everyone who's been reading this so far. I'm sorry it takes me forever to reply to comments but I read each of them one million times and love them all to bits!
> 
> Lots of love to my ever-patient beta [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Offgray) and my ~anonymous~ beta for cheering me on, and also to the GO events server for all the encouragement and general kvetching.
> 
> Blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to toothbrushes from racketghost's [Strange Moons](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480787) series.
> 
> Subscribe if you liked this - I promise lots of delicious hurt/comfort coming up next week! Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	4. Active Recall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, testing out the name in his mouth. He looked up and Crowley was smiling at him, so filled with joy that the sight of it made Aziraphale’s heart flutter. 
> 
> “That’s right, angel. You’re getting there.” Crowley sounded like he was trying to control himself, though there was a strange edge to his voice. “Will you try now? Try and think about what you can remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW cigarettes, physical injuries, mentions of blood and sutures. A hurt/comfort chapter!

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

Aziraphale stood next to the sleek black Bentley, anxiety simmering in the pit of his stomach. _It’s just a job_ , he reminded himself sternly. _Don’t think about it too hard._

“You all set, then?” A man in glasses walked up to him, tugging something out of his pocket. The driver of the client car. Aziraphale thought for a moment, trying to remember the codename he’d given – Hacker.

“Yes. I suppose so.”

Aziraphale mentally catalogued his arsenal. A SIG Sauer P365 holstered and concealed around his ankle. Two Glock 27s, one holstered at his waist, the other at his shoulder, both covered by the cream-coloured coat he wore. One Ghoststrike combat knife tucked into an ankle wrap sheath, another in a holster around his forearm, yet another concealed in his belt. An Al Mar SERE 2000 in his jacket pocket, just in case, though it would be probably be too unwieldy in an emergency.

He shook his head as Hacker held out a pack of cigarettes. “No, thanks.”

“Don’t smoke?”

“I’d rather not today.”

“Suit yourself.” Hacker lit his cigarette with the cheap plastic lighter – it took him a few tries before the flame caught – and stowed it back into his pocket afterwards. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale said. “I’m more of a… contractor, so to speak.”

“Ex-military?” Hacker guessed.

“Something like that.”

Hacker made an impressed noise. “I’m surprised Mr. C. agreed to this, though. He doesn’t like having strangers around. Especially not when he wants to keep things a little more undercover than usual.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s just the way he’s always been. He prefers to work alone. Doesn’t even have a…” Hacker thought for a second, “For lack of a better word, a _consigliere_ the way the other bosses do. Doesn’t trust easily, I guess. Not that trust is something you can afford to have in his line of work, anyway.”

Aziraphale watched Hacker out of the corner of his eye as he blew out a puff of smoke. He seemed ready enough to talk.

“Tell me about him. I’ve heard so many stories I can’t tell which ones are true.”

Hacker laughed. “Well, for one thing, he wouldn’t appreciate me telling stories about him. But I will tell you this. A lot of people tend to underestimate him because of the way he looks.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ll see him soon enough. Come on.” Hacker nodded toward the enormous oaken doors of the mansion. The doors had opened just a crack, and a figure in black was stepping out. Hacker dropped his cigarette on the ground and ground it out under his heel before putting his earpiece back in. He paused for a moment, as though wavering, then he hurriedly picked up the cigarette butt with a piece of paper and chucked it into a bin nearby. “It’s showtime, Witch. You ready back there?”

“Idiot. Of course I am.” Aziraphale heard the second driver’s voice through the earpiece, a little tinny with the static. _American_ , he thought to himself, hearing her accent. He wondered what kind of skillset she must be equipped with to be driving the follow-up car on her own, without backup of any sort. She must be fearsome. “Brace yourself, Angel. You’re about to meet Mr. C.”

As Hacker started the engine, Aziraphale got into the passenger seat, feeling more nervous than ever. Hacker drove up the driveway, nearer to the entrance of the mansion, and Aziraphale got his first glimpse of the Serpent, sharply dressed in a tailored black suit, white-blonde hair parted on one side and combed carefully away from his face, a posture that suggested that he was intensely bored. Anthony J. Crowley, one of the biggest crime lords in London, notorious for his unmatched business acumen in the organized crime network. Gambling, liquor, drugs – it was rumoured he had a finger in every single pie there was in the underworld.

Hacker braked the car, and Aziraphale got out quickly to open the door to the backseat for the Serpent. For a moment, he stood there staring at Aziraphale, an assessing look in his blue eyes.

“You must be Angel.”

“Yes, sir.” Aziraphale had to admit he was rather fascinated by the steely gaze. It was the look of a man who feared nothing. Every inch of him radiated a cool, collected sort of power, yet there was a strange air about him of something that almost resembled loneliness. It was a puzzling combination.

The Serpent nodded slowly. “Impressive resume you’ve got. You’ve been briefed on everything, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See to it you do what we’re paying you for, then.” His mouth curved up into a small smirk. “Keep me alive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aziraphale suddenly remembered he was still wearing his sunglasses. He hated taking them off in front of strangers, but neither did he want to appear rude to this man who, as he had just reminded Aziraphale, was paying him handsomely for a relatively simple op that would last only half a day. He reached up and hesitantly took off his sunglasses, blinking a little against the sudden brightness.

He was expecting the usual startled look he got when people saw his eyes – a brown so light they were nearly golden. Here in the light of the afternoon sun, they would look even lighter, he knew. He willed himself not to fidget.

What he wasn’t expecting was for the Serpent, with his unruffled air and distant expression, to flinch away from him suddenly, the gravel crunching loudly beneath his shoe.

“You – _Angel?_ ” He was staring at Aziraphale, his face suddenly pale.

“Sir?” Aziraphale blinked in confusion. He looked as though he had seen a ghost, eyes wide. Aziraphale could see his chest heaving under the dark suit. “Are you alright?”

At that, the Serpent seemed to recollect himself. He drew himself up and got into the car without deigning to answer. Aziraphale shut the car door and put his sunglasses on before he got into the front seat, feeling suddenly thrown off-balance. What was that all about? He chanced a glance at the rear-view mirror. The Serpent was slumped over in the seat with his eyes closed, rubbing at his temple as though it pained him.

“You’ve checked this route, haven’t you?” Hacker asked under his breath.

“Of course. At this time, there are no police on patrol along this route. Traffic is light. There will be a minimum number of security cameras along the roads we’ll be passing. It will be fine.”

“Leave the guy alone, Hacker, he clearly knows what he’s doing.” The voice in Aziraphale’s earpiece chimed in suddenly.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t. Know what you were doing, I mean. Er.”

Aziraphale smiled, amused at their rapport. Clearly, they knew each other very well. “No offense taken.”

They fell silent for some time, watchful and alert as Hacker drove them to their destination, a warehouse located near the outskirts of the city. The roads were relatively clear, just as Aziraphale had said they would be. He surreptitiously took another peek at the rear-view mirror. The Serpent was checking his phone now, his brow furrowed.

“How are you doing back there, Witch?” Hacker glanced at the rear-view mirror to check that the unmarked black van she was driving was still following behind them.

“All clear,” she said almost absently. “Look alive. We’re nearly there.”

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 4:00 PM**

Aziraphale stood behind the Serpent in an office that was so elegantly furnished it skewed on this side of overdone. It was wildly at odds with the dimly lit and musty-smelling old warehouse they had been led through to get here.

There was no one else in the room but the two of them. Aziraphale’s gaze swept the corners of the room, checking for the tell-tale blink of a listening device or a concealed camera. They had been patted down before they had been allowed to enter, Aziraphale divested of all his weapons save for the combat knife tucked into his belt that they hadn’t noticed. Something was making him uneasy, and he didn’t like that. He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years – it had kept him alive thus far.

For a moment, Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on the back of the white-blonde head, wondering at how the Serpent kept himself almost preternaturally still.

Then he heard it – footsteps echoing faintly outside, heading in their direction. Aziraphale stepped a little closer, angled himself just slightly to the Serpent’s right, his senses on high alert.

The door opened to admit Harriet Dowling, U.S. Ambassador to the U.K. Aziraphale recognised her immediately – she had figured prominently in the news recently.

The Serpent rose slowly from the chair as she entered, a strangely sinuous movement. “Ambassador Dowling. I’m Anthony Crowley. It’s good to finally meet you.”

There was something about his smile that was disarming, Aziraphale realised. He looked positively _beatific_ , his blue eyes and blonde hair making him look like some sort of stereotypical cherub. Dowling took the Serpent’s hand with a rare smile on her own face, and Aziraphale was surprised to see it. He supposed not even an ambassador was immune to the Serpent’s charm.

To Dowling’s credit, she seemed to have kept her word to only bring a single bodyguard to this meeting, a beefy dark-haired man who stood behind her, glowering at Aziraphale and flexing his biceps threateningly as he crossed his arms. _Ah, yes, macho posturing,_ Aziraphale thought to himself, barely managing to restrain himself from rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Mr. Crowley. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dowling gestured at her bodyguard, who reached into a cabinet and pulled out a decanter of scotch and two crystal glasses. He set them down on the table, and Dowling poured a drink for herself and the Serpent.

“To your health, Ambassador.”

“And to yours.” Dowling lifted her glass to toast him and took a sip.

“Now, it’s come to my attention that there are certain entities in the United States that have been looking for a supplier of firearms.”

Dowling paused for a long moment without speaking. Aziraphale could feel the undercurrent of tension running through the room as the Serpent shifted just the smallest amount in his seat. His posture remained relaxed, but Aziraphale could tell the muscles in his shoulders had stiffened. The ambassador’s eyes were calculating, the lines around her mouth tight.

“You’ve heard correctly. I imagine there isn’t any point to asking how.”

The Serpent laughed and set his glass down on the table. “I’m glad we understand each other, Ambassador.”

“What do you have to offer me?”

“Oh, I’m merely a broker,” the Serpent answered smoothly. “I see a need, and I present you with your options. In this case, I can introduce you to a… supplier that may be of assistance to you.”

Dowling considered this, then nodded. “I’m listening.”

“For me to provide you with a personalised recommendation, Ambassador, I will need to know two things: what kind of weapons you will need to purchase, and what they will be used for.”

“I’m not sure you need to be privy to that information, Mr. Crowley –”

“Please, call me Anthony,” he interrupted.

“Anthony, then. Would it not be sufficient to list what firearms we require?”

“You see, I can’t give you what you need if you don’t tell me what it is.” Aziraphale noticed that his voice had dropped to a lower register, poisonously sweet and inviting. “I assure you the utmost discretion, Ambassador. After all, I have my own interests to protect as well.”

“And if I were to tell you?”

“Then we can come to an arrangement.”

Aziraphale saw that the Serpent had settled back into his chair, the lines of his body slightly more relaxed than they had been earlier.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Crowley.”

“ _Anthony,”_ he repeated, smiling at her. “And not at all, Ambassador. You are perfectly free to refuse, of course. This is just business, after all, and there can be no contract when the parties involved don’t agree. Although I do believe you are running on a tight schedule.”

Dowling glared at him. “How could you have possibly known that?”

“I like to – what was that American expression? – keep my ear to the ground. I take it I’m not mistaken, then.”

“No… You aren’t.”

Aziraphale could practically see the wheels turning in the ambassador’s head. He could tell that she was already wavering. He felt an odd moment of triumph for the Serpent, whose face had relaxed into a small knowing smile. It was clear he thought that he had already won.

“Very well. In that case, we –”

Suddenly, the hairs stood up on the back of Aziraphale’s head, sirens blaring in his subconscious.

He turned toward the Serpent, reaching for him before –

The force of the explosion blew Aziraphale off his feet. He slammed into the wall and slid down to the ground, the breath knocked right out of him. For a moment, he lay there stunned, unable to breathe. All he could hear was a strange ringing noise in his ears.

 _The Serpent,_ he thought groggily. _Fuck._

Aziraphale could barely see anything, his eyes stinging with dust and smoke. He had no idea where his sunglasses were. He was still wheezing for breath, his ears still ringing, but he crawled forward on his hands and knees, adrenaline pushing him forward until at last he found the Serpent. He was lying on his side, a small pool of blood forming under his head. Suddenly, it was as though the ground gave way from underneath Aziraphale’s feet.

He could never remember how they had gotten out after that. He could only recall a crushing pressure in his chest, his breath coming in gasps, fear threatening to eclipse everything in his mind with the Serpent’s body so still in his arms.

Hacker and Witch found Aziraphale staggering out of the warehouse. They had taken one look and hustled them into the black van, Witch driving off with all due speed.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked, his mind numb with panic. He stripped off his shirt and jacket – the jacket went under the Serpent’s head as he lay stretched out across the seat, Aziraphale kneeling next to him in only his undershirt and bulletproof vest as he tried to staunch the bleeding from the head wound with his shirt. “Wherever it is, for God’s sake _please_ tell me you’ve at least got first aid kits there.”

“Relax, Angel.” Witch led their convoy of two with single-minded purpose, Hacker tailing them closely as they raced up the highway. “We’re going to a safehouse. He’s always prepared for anything that might happen.”

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 7:00 PM**

Aziraphale watched as Hacker walked into the nondescript flat, his senses on high alert, Witch sitting in the driver’s seat with her fingers clenched around the steering wheel. After a quarter of an hour, Hacker stuck his head out the door and signalled to Witch. She exhaled, her hands relaxing.

“Flat’s clear. Go on, take him inside,” she said in a low voice. “Hacker and I need to check the perimeter.”

Aziraphale nodded and lifted the Serpent out of the van, carrying him into the flat. It was much smaller than he’d expected after seeing the grandiose, if austere, mansion the Serpent lived in – just an ordinary two-bedroom affair wallpapered in dove grey, with dark grey wood vinyl flooring to match. A surprising number of plants were scattered about the living room.

Gently, Aziraphale laid the Serpent down on the queen-size bed in the master’s bedroom. For a moment, he slid to his knees on the floor next to the bed, allowing himself a few seconds to feel the alarm and fear he had been choking down for the past hour in the van. He pulled off the vest, desperate to get its stifling weight off him, and tugged at the straps of the holsters he wore, throwing them on the floor next to the vest. He buried his face in his hands, trying to catch his breath, trying not to think of the moment he’d found the Serpent lying still as death on the ground as panic gripped Aziraphale tightly by the throat, that awful squeezing sensation in his chest –

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bedcovers rustling slightly. Aziraphale forced himself to get to his feet, tamping down his emotion firmly. _Back to work,_ he thought _._ He stood by the bed as the Serpent stirred, his eyes blinking open. There was a hard lump of relief in Aziraphale’s throat, and he exhaled slowly, shutting his eyes for a moment in gratitude.

The Serpent’s eyes were unfocused, staring at him blankly. Suddenly, the blue eyes widened, and he tried to sit up, but a sound of pain escaped his throat. Aziraphale held him gently down as the Serpent grasped at his arm weakly, trying to push him off.

“Where am I?”

“Sir, you’ve been hurt. There was an explosion at the warehouse during your meeting with Ambassador Dowling.” Aziraphale tried to speak in a low voice, soothing. “We’re at one of your safehouses now. You’re safe.”

“Safe,” he echoed, his eyes still wide, his fingers still closed around Aziraphale’s wrist. “You – you brought me here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you hurt?”

The question drew Aziraphale up short. How could he think of Aziraphale at a time like this?

“I – I’m alright, sir.”

The lines around the blue eyes relaxed, eyelids drooping with exhaustion, and the Serpent’s head slumped to the side as he fell fast asleep. The hand that gripped Aziraphale’s wrist slowly loosened, dropping down lightly against Aziraphale’s hand on the Serpent’s chest.

Aziraphale stood watching him silently for a moment. There was that sensation in his chest again – a tight band wrapped around his heart, making him feel like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs as he looked at the pale hand that lay on top of his own. He could feel the Serpent’s heart beating gently under his hand, the rhythm at odds with the thundering in his own chest.

The front door opened and shut. Aziraphale carefully pulled his hand away from the Serpent with something that felt oddly like regret just as the bedroom door opened to reveal Witch standing in the hallway.

“Hacker’s on first watch outside. How is he?”

“He woke up for a few seconds but went back to sleep.”

“Did he say anything?” Aziraphale noticed the crease that had formed between her eyebrows. She was genuinely worried, he realised with astonishment.

“He asked where he was. And then he asked… if I was alright.”

He could feel the heat rising to his face for some reason as Witch’s eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat hurriedly.

“I’ll need to check him for other injuries now, but his head wound’s stopped bleeding at least. It’ll need stitches, though. Have you got a first aid kit here?”

She nodded. “It’s in the kitchen. Just a sec, I’ll go get it.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, thinking of what injuries he might have sustained. His shoulder would be the worst of it, Aziraphale thought, thinking of the trajectory of the force of the explosion and how it had blown the Serpent off the chair he’d sat in. He looked up as Witch came in with an enormous bag of medical supplies.

He raised his eyebrows. “First aid kit?”

She shrugged. “Told you he’s ready for anything. What do you need?”

“Help me get his jacket off. I need to check him for injuries.”

Witch got on the bed next to the Serpent, her movements completely unabashed. Aziraphale lifted the Serpent gently, supporting his back and neck. He didn’t stir, even as she carefully pulled the jacket off his shoulders, laying it on the end of the bed.

“His shirt too?” She asked.

“Yes, if you would.”

It was puzzling how she moved, Aziraphale thought, watching her deftly undoing his tie, unbuttoning the Serpent’s black waistcoat and grey silk shirt with ease. For some reason, he felt something hot and unpleasant stirring in the pit of his stomach at the thought of her having done this before. But then he realised that she was doing all of it without jarring any of his limbs or waking him up.

“Does this happen often?” There was a sinking sensation of worry gathering in his chest.

“I wouldn’t say often.” Witch shook out the shirt and waistcoat and put them on top of the jacket. “But a few times, yeah.”

Aziraphale gently lowered the Serpent back down onto the bed, surveying his torso and shoulder. Bruises were already beginning to bloom dark on his left upper arm and shoulder where he had landed. Aziraphale abruptly realised something.

“Why wasn’t he wearing a bulletproof vest?” Aziraphale asked, his teeth clenched.

“Dunno. He likes the thrill of not wearing one, he said once.”

What an _idiot._ Aziraphale shook his head.

“He looks like he’s breathing easily, at least. Not much swelling, so that’s a good sign. Most likely, no bones broken,” he said, the tightly coiled knot in his chest loosening somewhat. “I’ll probably need to stabilise his shoulder just in case. He’s lucky he didn’t dislocate it.”

“What happened in there?”

“It all happened so fast. One moment, they were talking about the deal, the next –” Aziraphale thought for a moment, trying to recall. “I hit my head in the explosion. I can’t remember much. Dowling and her bodyguard were gone, though. I suppose they must have gotten out before we did.”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Hacker’s keeping an eye on the news.” She looked at him for a moment. “You should get some ice on your head.”

“Later. I’ll patch him up first.”

She nodded and got to her feet. “We should probably have something to eat. It’s gonna be a long night. I’ll check out the pantry. Do you need any more help?”

“No, I can manage. Thank you.”

Aziraphale turned his attention back to the Serpent as she left the room, suddenly realising that they hadn’t checked his legs yet. He had half a mind to call Witch back, but he could already hear her rummaging in the kitchen. He sighed. _It’s just a job_ , he reminded himself once more, but for some reason his mouth was feeling rather dry.

He bent over to undo the Serpent’s belt and raised an eyebrow when he saw that the buckle was shaped like a snake head, the black leather embossed with a pattern like scales. He pulled off the belt and undid the button and zip of the black denim trousers before noticing just how tight they were – they might as well have been painted onto his legs.

Aziraphale sighed and started tugging the trousers down from the Serpent’s ankles. Why anyone would wear such uncomfortable clothing, he would never understand. When he finally managed to peel them off, a particularly painful throb went through his head, and he swayed on the spot. He probably had a concussion, he thought, but there was a strange feeling in his mind as he looked down at the black trousers he held, as though they jogged a memory that he couldn’t quite grasp.

He laid the trousers down on the bed. For some reason, he was feeling rather embarrassed. He shook his head, exhaling loudly through his nose. He was being _ridiculous_ , he chided himself, resolutely keeping his mind empty as he examined the Serpent’s lower body for any injuries. No tell-tale swelling anywhere on his legs, so probably no fractures, Aziraphale noted with relief, though there was a large bruise already forming on the Serpent’s hip to match his shoulder.

The closet in the corner was well-stocked with clothes, all of them in black and grey, and he quickly found a loose black shirt for the Serpent to sleep in. It was more difficult to dress him without Witch’s help – he had to give her credit, moving his limbs around was certainly more difficult than it looked, but he managed it in the end. His fingertips lingered lightly over the buttons as he did them up, a sudden sense of protectiveness filling him.

For a moment, Aziraphale looked down at the Serpent, his face quiet and relaxed in sleep, and tried not to think about the strange tugging in his chest. He reached down and pulled the thick black blanket over the Serpent, tucking it gently around him.

In the adjoining bathroom, Aziraphale found towels, washcloths, and a small basin. He wavered for a moment before deciding that he would need to disinfect the Serpent’s head injury anyway before he could stitch it up. He turned on the tap to fill the basin with a little water, checking to make sure the temperature was hot, but bearably so.

He walked back into the bedroom and stood next to the Serpent, strangely hesitant. This was _necessary,_ he admonished himself. He dipped the washcloth into the water and started sponging the grime and blood away from the Serpent’s face, as gently as he could manage. He was determined not to think about how unbearably _intimate_ this felt, tried not to touch the Serpent’s face with his fingers more than he needed to as he dabbed at the pale skin. He took the utmost care with the area surrounding the wound – he noted with relief it was a relatively minor injury after all. Taking a dry towel, Aziraphale patted it against the Serpent’s face, blotting away the moisture with a light hand.

Aziraphale let a breath out that he didn’t know he had been holding, his shoulders stiff with tension. He rose to his feet to search through the medical supplies, washing his hands before pulling on a pair of surgical gloves and getting to work. It was much easier to lose himself in the familiar motion of disinfecting, suturing and bandaging the wound – he had even found a local anaesthetic in the medical supplies, and the quiet rhythm of it was soothing, calming his frayed nerves. Carefully, he tied a sling around the Serpent’s left arm to hold the injured shoulder in place.

The refrigerator in the small kitchen was stocked not with food, but with even more medical supplies. Aziraphale found some ice packs in the freezer and took them back to the bedroom, wrapping them with cloth. For a moment, he stood over the bed, his hand hovering over the Serpent. He needed to be woken, Aziraphale thought, just in case he had a concussion. But he had no idea how to do it. _Let sleeping snakes lie_ , he thought to himself ironically. He took a deep breath, steeling himself in case being woken activated some sort of internal defence mechanism in the Serpent.

“Sir.” Too soft. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Sir. Wake up, sir.”

He didn’t move. Aziraphale sighed. He’d asked to be called Anthony earlier when he was speaking to the ambassador – would he answer to that? Aziraphale felt uncomfortable just at the thought of it, but it was worth a try.

“Anthony. Anthony, wake up.” This time Aziraphale reached over, tapped him lightly on the uninjured arm. “Wake up, Anthony.”

It took a few tries, but at last the Serpent’s eyelashes fluttered and slowly, the blue eyes blinked open once more. It took a few moments for him to properly focus on Aziraphale’s face.

“What time is it?” He asked drowsily.

“Nearly a quarter to ten, sir. I’m sorry to wake you. You might have a concussion, so I’ll be waking you every two hours to make sure you’re alright.”

The Serpent said nothing. He was merely gazing at Aziraphale as though he was trying to remember something.

“Do you know what year it is?”

He winced. “2019."

Aziraphale nodded. “How are you feeling, sir?”

“Head hurts,” he rasped out. At that, he noticed the sling around his arm and tugged against it experimentally. “That too.”

A small smile appeared on Aziraphale’s face despite himself. “Sir, you have a small head wound that I’ve stitched up. You also appear to have a badly sprained shoulder, along with some bruising along your hip and on your arm.”

“No wonder it hurts.”

“Would you like something for the pain?” Aziraphale ventured, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

“No. I’ll live.” He tried to push himself up but couldn’t manage it.

“Sir, you have to stay still. We don’t want to risk aggravating your injuries.” Goodness, this could get frustrating, Aziraphale thought. “I’ll need to apply ice packs to your shoulder and hip now, if that’s alright.”

The Serpent merely grunted. Aziraphale watched him tentatively for a moment, but when no objection was forthcoming, he carefully applied the cloth-wrapped ice packs against his shoulder and his hip, both now dark and mottled with bruises.

“What about you?” The Serpent asked abruptly, the blue gaze suddenly more alert. Only they weren’t quite blue, Aziraphale realised now, were they closer to grey? “Are you hurt?”

Aziraphale shook his head and it made his head throb again. “I think I hit my head when the explosion happened. Nothing else.”

“You should get yourself one of these ice packs, then.” He was watching Aziraphale again with a curious look on his face. “Just in case.”

“I will,” Aziraphale promised. “Later when –”

There was a knock at the door. Aziraphale looked at the Serpent, who nodded. Aziraphale got up and opened the door to see Witch holding a plate and a glass of water.

“Sir.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, the Serpent smiled – a small one, but a genuine smile nevertheless.

“Are those my prison rations?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you _are_ concussed, and you start throwing up later –”

“Alright, alright,” he interrupted. “You don’t have to lecture me every time. For once, this was entirely out of my hands.”

“Every time? _For_ _once?”_ Aziraphale echoed in disbelief. 

He glanced at Aziraphale, an improbably guilty look on his face. “S'nothing. Really.”

“What he means is that he’s got a terrible habit of walking into bad situations,” Witch said, placing the glass of water and the plate with four pieces of dry toast on the bedside table. “Think you can manage to sit up now?”

“M’fine, don’t fuss. Just a headache.”

“ _Just_ a headache, he says.” Witch rolled her eyes at Aziraphale, who laughed.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t a lie.” Aziraphale helped the Serpent sit up, Witch fluffing the pillows behind him so that he could comfortably rest against the headboard. She handed him the glass of water.

“Drink.”

“You’re going to be sorry about this when I’m feeling better,” he retorted under his breath.

“Well, riling you up seems to get you feeling better faster, so I’m not that worried.”

She took the glass from him, laid the plate of toast on his lap.

“Eat.”

He sighed, picking up a piece of toast with his right hand and nibbling at it halfheartedly.

“Where’s Newt?”

“Sir!” She said sharply, glancing at Aziraphale. 

“Oh,” he said, looking faintly confused, as though just realising what he had done. “He’s alright,” he said simply, looking at Aziraphale with that odd look on his face again. He waved her protest off with a single movement of his hand. “I know him.”

Aziraphale blinked in shock, though he had the sense not to open his mouth. Witch subsided dutifully. She still looked askance at Aziraphale, but now there was something like curiosity in her expression.

“He’s outside taking the first watch.”

“Right. I need you both to coordinate with our… contact. See if Dowling got out okay. We were right on the edge of clinching that deal when the bomb or whatever it was went off.” He paused in between words, as though making an effort to speak clearly, picking his words with care.

Witch didn't comment. She merely nodded. “Anything else, sir?”

“See if you can find out what happened. Dunno if you’ll be able to manage to find whoever might have been on Dowling’s tail, but maybe Newt can figure something out. And get something to eat.”

“Since _we’re_ not concussed, we don’t get prison rations. We’ll do you the favour of not enjoying ourselves in front of you.” There was a satisfied smirk on her face.

“If I catch either of you _enjoying yourselves_ in this house –”

She glared at him. “I’m not a teenager anymore. And we’re _working,_ for fuck’s sake.”

“Language.” He clicked his tongue.

“Ugh.” She stomped out of the room and banged the door. He flinched slightly at the loud sound, though there was a smile hovering about his lips.

“Not a teenager, she says.”

“You – is she _yours_?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.

“Well. Not exactly. But in a way, I suppose she is.” The look on his face softened to something that Aziraphale thought might be affection. “Ana’s parents were some of the biggest gun dealers in the underworld. I… knew their family. All murdered when she was fourteen. Parents and three older brothers.”

“That’s horrible,” Aziraphale whispered, more than a little astounded at this unexpected revelation from a man who was rumoured to be one of the most ruthless and cold-blooded criminals in London.

He nodded sombrely. “They knew what they were getting into. They named me godfather for that very reason. Though I haven’t had to do much to take care of her, really. You’ve seen her. One hell of a brain. She could run circles around me any day.”

“I’m surprised she still wants to be in the business.”

“Me too.” He sighed. “I wish she didn’t. She and Newt should go abroad. Settle down in a cottage in the country or something instead of running around the city keeping guard over an old man.”

“Sir, it seems very much to me like she wants to be here. And you’re hardly old.” Aziraphale’s brow creased in concern.

“Hm. I’m definitely a lot older than you.” He picked up the piece of toast he had been pecking at and pushed the plate closer to Aziraphale. “You don’t care much for dry toast, but this is all we’re getting tonight, I think.”

“You should eat that, sir.”

A curious smile crossed his lips. “I don’t eat much. I know you’re hungry, though.”

“Why are you talking like you know me?” Aziraphale’s voice was low, unable to ignore the tugging ache in his chest any longer.

“Because you do, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted to him sharply. Why did he say it like that – as though _angel_ weren’t a codename, but an endearment? A searing pain went through Aziraphale’s head, and he winced.

“Maybe I do have a concussion,” Aziraphale said, massaging his forehead with his fingertips gingerly.

“Maybe you do.” The Serpent – _Crowley?_ leaned back against the pillows, watching him with tired eyes. “Or maybe you’re starting to remember, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale tensed – his birth name had been wiped completely off the face of every record in the planet years ago. How could he have possibly known it? Aziraphale’s head was throbbing, the Serpent’s name pushing at his mind. _Crowley, his name is Crowley._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, testing out the name in his mouth. He looked up and Crowley was smiling at him, so filled with joy that the sight of it made Aziraphale’s heart flutter.

“That’s right, angel. You’re getting there.” Crowley sounded like he was trying to control himself, though there was a strange edge to his voice. “Will you try now? Try and think about what you can remember.”

Aziraphale’s heart was beating hard in his chest. It was all so bizarre, and yet, he couldn’t deny it – was this what he had been trying to make sense of all this time, the ghost of a memory that had always been just beyond his reach? He shut his eyes and tried to focus. _Crowley._ It was so much easier now that Aziraphale had a starting point. _Crowley._ A whiff of musky perfume, the smooth warmth of whiskey on his tongue, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, a blur of loud music and a throng of people. His hand on Crowley’s elbow. Crowley in his arms. Crowley’s body pinned against the bed. Crowley gasping his name in his ear. Crowley’s head thrown back, lost in pleasure. Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley_ –

Aziraphale gasped at the spike of pain that drove itself into his head, interrupting his train of thought. His breathing had grown shallow and quick, and his face was burning.

“Angel? You alright?”

Aziraphale almost didn’t want to open his eyes to look at Crowley, but the question was edged with a sharp undertone of worry. He glanced at Crowley nervously through his lashes.

“I – I remember something. I think.” Aziraphale was gratified to see that a deep flush had risen to Crowley’s face and the toast had been dropped back onto the plate, forgotten.

“Tell me.”

Aziraphale felt rather as though he was moving without thought, almost as though he were in a dream. He got up from the chair and moved toward the bed. Wordlessly, he lifted the plate from Crowley’s lap and placed it back on the bedside table before sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress. His heart was thudding so loud, he wondered distantly if Crowley could hear it. This was _insane_ , this was his _employer_ for heaven’s sake – and yet somehow, it all seemed like it was exactly the right thing for him to do.

“You asked me then, if this was alright.” His eyes searched Crowley’s face, alight with some emotion he couldn’t name.

“Yes. I did.”

“I’ll ask you now.” Aziraphale paused, suddenly nervous. Crowley was watching him intently, and suddenly Aziraphale knew what it was he saw in Crowley’s face – it was longing, and Aziraphale knew it because that was the name for the strange tug in his chest, too. “Is this alright?”

“ _Yes.”_ Crowley’s voice was a low rumble in his chest.

Aziraphale leaned forward, hesitated for a moment, his heart in his throat, and pressed his lips softly against Crowley’s for a long moment. He was struck by how familiar it was – even Crowley’s soft intake of breath was something he had always known. Their lips slotted together easily, as though they had kissed many, many times before – and yet there was something about it was different from how he remembered that he couldn’t identify.

When they broke apart, Crowley was shivering minutely, and there was a hitch in his breath.

“You _do_ remember,” Crowley breathed, his voice thick with relief.

“Not all of it, I think.” Some details were too vague, Aziraphale could barely make them out. But for some reason… he looked at Crowley, puzzled. What colour were his eyes, really? Blue or grey? Hadn’t they been a different colour entirely?

Crowley shook his head and winced. “You remember enough.”

“Yes.” The blush on Aziraphale’s face darkened when Crowley looked away, as though he were embarrassed.

“Well.” Crowley’s voice came out too high, and he cleared his throat. “Anyway. You’re right. You probably can’t remember much because you hit your head. It’ll come back later.”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale took the plate of toast from the bedside table and put it back on Crowley’s lap. “Now eat, and we’ll talk.”

Crowley scowled at him and picked up the piece of half-eaten toast. “Go on, have the rest of it.” 

Aziraphale acquiesced just to convince him to keep eating. As soon as his mouth closed around the first bite, a groan escaped his throat. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until now – even plain toast tasted amazing.

He caught Crowley staring at him, his mouth half open.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said quickly, stuffing a bite of toast into his mouth and chewing, his face still a bright red. By the time he finally finished his slice, Aziraphale had already eaten all the rest of the toast on the plate.

Crowley took the ice pack that was pressed against his hip and handed it to Aziraphale. “Here. For your head.”

“Oh, but –”

“No buts,” Crowley said sternly. “I’m still your boss, you know.”

“I suppose you are,” Aziraphale muttered. “I bet you were enjoying me calling you ‘sir.’”

“Can’t say I wasn’t.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped up, shocked, but then he saw Crowley laughing quietly. It was an unexpectedly infectious thing, and before he knew it, he was laughing too.

“Oh, Crowley. You ridiculous creature.” His hand reached up, almost without conscious thought, to stroke Crowley’s face with the back of his hand. “I – I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“Me too. Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“I think that’s when I started to remember, when I found you after the explosion.” Aziraphale’s voice dropped suddenly, his throat tightening, the ghost of the awful choking he had felt when he had seen Crowley lying crumpled on the ground. “I thought… I thought –”

“Hey, none of that. S’alright now.” Crowley held out his hand, reaching for Aziraphale. Their fingers twined together, the warmth of Crowley’s hand a comfort.

“It was practically a miracle, you know. A blast of that force should have killed you. Killed both of us, really.”

“But it didn’t.” Crowley’s eyes were pinched at the corners, as though he were trying to focus. “Guess we should be grateful. How did you end up here, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the only time I’ve ever contracted an agent for an op. And it just so happened to be you.”

“Ah, well –” Aziraphale paused, struggling to think of how to explain. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I suppose I’ve been keeping an eye on you, in a way.”

“You _what?”_ Crowley’s mouth dropped open.

“It’s just that I’d heard of you before, on some of my other… jobs.” Aziraphale’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap, the heat flushing his cheeks for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour. “The Serpent of the criminal underworld. You’re quite infamous, you know.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at him exaggeratedly. “ _And?_ ”

“I don’t know how to explain it!” Aziraphale protested. “I used to be in… the military, I suppose. A top-secret group of agents. But then one of our ops went wrong a few years ago.” It was still difficult to speak of it. Most days, he tried not to think about it at all. “They had to wipe my entire life off the map. A new identity, a new name.”

Crowley’s hand tightened around his own. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was a long time ago. But before that, my whole life was focused only on the mission, and then the next mission, and then the next mission.” He had never talked about this with anyone before. He looked at Crowley, suddenly feeling timid under his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m talking so much.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Crowley squeezed his hand once more, more gently this time. “Tell me. All of it. I _want_ to hear it.”

“Well… I didn’t quite know who I was after that, I suppose.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley hesitantly. “Having no ties of any sort to anyone or anything would do that to you. I had a lot of time to myself to think.”

“What did you think about?” Crowley’s thumb moved rhythmically in circles around the back of Aziraphale’s hand, grounding him, giving him something else to focus on to make the admission bearable.

“I don’t know how to describe it, really.” Aziraphale tried to smile, tried to find the words to make what he was about to say sound less ridiculous than it was. He stared down at their hands. It was easier to talk when he didn’t have to look at Crowley. “I felt like there was something I was missing. Like there was something I couldn’t quite remember. A gap in my head. I never had the time to notice it before I was decommissioned.”

“So what did you do?” Crowley asked.

“Well. This, I suppose. I don’t know. It seemed a shame to waste my skillset. I was never directly involved in anything, of course,” Aziraphale added quickly. “It’s exactly like you said. I was always just a contractor.”

“But why this particular job?”

“I don’t know. Intuition?” Aziraphale shook his head helplessly. He couldn’t explain it, the way it had shaken him when he heard the news from the grapevine that the Serpent was looking for an agent for a one-off job, how Aziraphale had felt in his very bones that he had to take it, no matter what. “I know it sounds silly.”

“Or maybe… you remembered even then,” Crowley said softly.

“Maybe I did.” Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley watching him with a strangely tender expression on his face. “What is it, Crowley?”

“Thank you,” Crowley said unexpectedly. The fervour of his gratitude shook Aziraphale to the core. “Thank you for remembering me.”

“How could I not?”

They were quiet for some time, both lost in their thoughts. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, and the expression he was making was so familiar that it was almost painful to see it – one eyebrow raised, lips slightly pursed and turned down at the corners, though the lines at the corners of his eyes were tight with what looked like pain.

“We were separated, weren’t we?” Aziraphale asked at last. “How are we going to stop it from happening now?”

“I don’t know, angel. I really don’t.” Crowley slumped against the pillows, looking exhausted. A yawn threatened to split his head open.

“Time for you to sleep some more, I think.” Aziraphale smiled slightly, though a worried voice was nagging at the back of his mind – had he just been imagining it, or had Crowley been slurring? “We can talk about it some more in the morning. For now, you need to recover.”

“Not tired,” Crowley protested as he tried to stifle a second yawn behind his hand. “M’fine.”

“You have to rest.”

“No.” Crowley’s hand tightened around Aziraphale’s, and suddenly it dawned upon Aziraphale just why Crowley refused to sleep.

“I’m not going anywhere, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes widened before he dropped his gaze, his cheeks stained pink. Aziraphale suddenly felt self-conscious at how the words had slipped from his lips so easily – and yet somehow, he knew for sure they were the words Crowley had needed to hear.

“I – I’ll be right here. I’ll wake you up every couple of hours, just to be sure.”

“You should get some rest too.” Crowley hesitated. “Plenty of room here. Erm. On the bed.”

It was ridiculous for them to be blushing so much. They’d already _slept together,_ for heaven’s sake. Aziraphale got up and moved to the other side of the bed, pausing to unlace his shoes so he could climb into the bed next to Crowley. He wondered at how natural it felt to wrap his arms around Crowley so that Crowley was resting comfortably against his chest, to press a kiss into Crowley’s hair (though Aziraphale wondered briefly – wasn’t his hair a different colour before?)

Before long, Crowley was asleep in his arms, his breathing even and measured, the weight of him warm and heavy against Aziraphale.

He lay awake, trying to sort through his thoughts, his head still aching. He couldn’t force Crowley to think about this tonight, not while he was still recuperating, so he would have to do his best to remember what he could.

Aziraphale concentrated, resolutely ignoring the pressure of the building pain in his head. What was happening to them? Clearly, he and Crowley were both remembering the same things – they _must_ have happened before. But he was also certain that he had never met Crowley before yesterday afternoon.

He took a deep breath. It defied all logic, but they couldn’t both be having the same delusion, could they? Perhaps he could figure out something from what he could remember from last time. Shutting his eyes, he tried to think. The memories came in pieces, anachronistic and disjointed. Some of them made no sense at all – a silver wreath of laurel leaves, a lectern in the shape of an eagle, snatches of… Shakespeare?

Never mind those, Aziraphale thought. There were only a few things he could be certain of. He and Crowley had met one night in a bar and had too much to drink. Aziraphale clicked his tongue in annoyance. Trying to recall was hard enough without having to take the alcohol into consideration.

They had spent the night together – Aziraphale tried not to get distracted, difficult as it was with the warmth of Crowley’s body pressed against him. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to focus. Something had happened the morning that he couldn’t remember clearly. The last thing he could remember was holding Crowley. He had been trembling in Aziraphale’s arms, his heart thudding so hard Aziraphale could feel it against his own chest.

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around Crowley’s sleeping form protectively, exhaling with the effort of trying to recall. He tried to organise his thoughts. In everything that had happened, they had only had one night. That was the one thing he could be sure of. His eyelids were so heavy suddenly, and it was so warm and comfortable – he had to remember to tell Crowley the next time he woke him up, he thought drowsily as he drifted off to sleep.

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 1:45 AM**

Aziraphale woke with a start, disoriented, nearly flinching away against the warmth of the weight against his body before he remembered where he was. Crowley was still asleep, his cheek pressed against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale noticed with a sudden surge of affection that he had slept with his mouth slightly open, and a small trail of moisture was already beginning at the corner of his mouth.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “Crowley, wake up.”

He gently rubbed his hand up and down Crowley’s uninjured arm, trying to ease him back into consciousness. To Aziraphale’s growing trepidation, Crowley wasn’t moving. Aziraphale carefully pulled away from Crowley and sat up, his heart suddenly beating fast.

“Crowley, wake up.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand.

At last, Crowley stirred, but his eyes didn’t open. A quiet sound escaped his lips as his head shifted and settled back down against the pillow.

 _Oh, no._ Aziraphale nearly cursed aloud. He lifted Crowley gently back up into a sitting position, though his hands were already trembling.

“Crowley,” he said again, his hands cupping Crowley’s face, stroking over his cheeks softly. “Crowley, please wake up.”

Finally, Crowley slowly opened his eyes, but his gaze was clouded and unfocused, looking at Aziraphale as though he barely recognised him.

“Angel,” he said, his voice groggy. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, alarmed. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “You have to stay awake. Look at me.”

“M – my head,” Crowley muttered, his head already settling back against the pillows. “Can’t…” His breathing was already drifting off into the slow rhythm of sleep.

 _Fuck._ “Crowley, don’t go back to sleep. Look at me.” Aziraphale was shaking his good arm now, pinching him gently, trying not to let him fall asleep again. “Crowley. _Crowley!”_

Aziraphale jerked at the loud knock at the door, a split second before it swung open. Witch – _Ana,_ Crowley had called her – stood in the doorway, her eyes tight, tension sculpting every line of her body.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“He won’t stay awake. I think his concussion might have been worse than we thought,” Aziraphale said, his voice grating with fear. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

“No hospitals,” she answered sharply. “There’s someone we trust – a doctor. I’ll call her. Keep trying to wake him.”

Aziraphale nodded, and she strode out of the room, tugging her phone out of her pocket.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale begged. “You need to stay awake.”

“Angel…”

“Yes, my dear. It’s me. Please look at me.”

Crowley opened his eyes with what appeared to be a great deal of effort.

“Angel,” he said again, his voice slurring. “Wuzz goin’ on?”

“We’re calling for a doctor, Crowley. You’ve got a bad concussion, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale cupped his face, his heart beating fast. One night, he remembered suddenly, that was all they had. One night.

“Crowley, in case anything happens… I don’t think you’ll remember much of tonight,” Aziraphale whispered desperately, Ana’s voice drifting in from the hallway, speaking brusquely on the phone. “But I’ll take care of it, I promise.” He pulled Crowley against him, Crowley’s head lolling against his shoulder.

The sound of Ana’s voice abruptly ceased, as though someone had pressed a mute button. It was deathly still, and without warning the light in the hallway snapped off of its own volition, the darkness a gaping void outside the open door. A sense of dread was filling Aziraphale, the sudden fear that he knew just what was about to happen next. He kissed Crowley’s hair, cradled him gently in his arms.

“I’ll remember, Crowley. I’ll remember for both of us,” Aziraphale whispered.

His arms tightened around Crowley as the dim lightbulb of the bedroom sputtered and died, engulfing them in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as usual to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) for the endless patience, and my ~anonymous~ beta for the endless cheering! My apologies for any medical inaccuracies that might have been left behind here, all those errors are my own. My working knowledge of first aid is heavily reliant on Google.
> 
> To everyone who's been reading and commenting - you are all too kind, and the amount of happiness you bring me is unimaginable. Thanks so much for sticking around and reading this self-indulgent thing I've been working on. Thank you also to the GO events server - people have been so, so encouraging and I have never written so much in my life.
> 
> My initial six-chapter count will be going up once I upload the next chapter, because these two have taken hold of the steering wheel of my mental Bentley and strapped me into the backseat for the ride.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	5. Retrieval & Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What?” Crowley flung the blanket away, swinging his legs down onto the floor and towering above Aziraphale suddenly. “Are you going to tell me it’s going to be alright? That we’re going to be able to fix things somehow?” He laughed aloud. “This is _fucking insane_ , Aziraphale!”

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

“Special delivery, Mr. Fell.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Aziraphale took the proffered envelope, addressed merely to “Aziraphale”. He slit the envelope open and out fell a ticket to the opening night of _Eurydice_ with a note in Anathema’s elaborate script.

> Sorry again I couldn’t get you _Hamlet –_ I’ll make it up to you next time!

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 6:57 PM**

Aziraphale at last found his seat after some confusion with a few fellow patrons who had gotten the seat numbers mixed up (nothing a bit of politeness couldn’t resolve, of course). Here he was in the front row of the centre orchestra section – trust Anathema to get him the best possible seat there was, and he smiled at the thought.

There were still a few minutes to spare before the play would begin. He settled down comfortably and turned his attention to the souvenir programme in his lap. He flipped to the glossy page featuring the cast line-up. Anathema had assured him that it was worth watching – it wasn’t often that they featured so many new faces in such prominent roles. The leading man in particular was a promising new actor, his first lead role in such a major production. Aziraphale peered closer at the small black and white photograph of a man with a sharply chiselled face. _ORPHEUS,_ the text below the image said, _played by Anthony J. Crowley_.

A twinge of pain went through Aziraphale’s head and he winced. Just then, the lights dimmed and a voice over the PA announced that the play would begin shortly.

As the overhead lights slowly turned off and the curtains onstage parted to reveal the dramatically lit set, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel frustrated. There was something there, the ghost of a thought that he had just been about to grasp but had faded away the moment he had gotten distracted. He chewed at his lip, wondering what it could have been – he couldn’t help but feel that it had been something important.

But before long, Aziraphale was riveted, and his interest only grew more and more as the play progressed. He watched as Eurydice sank to her knees, the deadly fangs of a serpent piercing her ankle, the naiads grieving as she slipped away. The serpent transformed into the form of a man with long hair dressed in a black robe, and he accompanied Eurydice past the monsters that stood by the gates of Hades until they arrived at the River Styx, where Charon stood waiting on the riverbank. She looked down at her hand and found a coin pressed into her hand. Charon held his hand out expectantly, and she dropped the coin into his waiting palm.

Eurydice turned back one last time to look at the serpent, who was coiled up by the riverbank in his original form, watching her until she finally got into the boat and began moving slowly down the Styx.

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 8:30 PM**

The lights dimmed after the intermission, and the curtains were drawn open once more. Half the stage was a richly decorated throne room, its colours dark and gloomy, where Hades, the lord of the underworld sat next to his queen Persephone on thrones set high on a dais. On the other half of the stage, Persephone sat alone in the centre of the gloom of a desolate field, surrounded by the souls of the departed, all of them swaying slightly, all of them staring at nothing.

Suddenly, a man skidded onstage before the dais, a thin circlet of silver laurel leaves set on his ruddy hair, clad in dark sackcloth. Hades roared with anger and rose to his feet, ready to smite him, but Orpheus prostrated himself before them, his shoulders shuddering. Persephone touched Hades lightly on the arm, and slowly, he settled back into his throne, waiting.

Orpheus opened his mouth and began to sing, a tenor haunting and tremulous with emotion.

_“I longed to be able to endure it,  
and I do not say I have not tried.  
Love conquers.”_

Aziraphale sat open-mouthed at the beauty of the glorious voice, the powerful melody thrumming through his veins, deeply moved by the agony of the lamentation as Orpheus begged for his love to be returned to him. He crawled on his hands and knees to the very edge of the dais, his voice impassioned and fervent with love.

_“I ask this benefit as a gift;  
but if the fates refuse my love,  
I am determined not to return –  
you can delight in both our deaths.”_

Hot tears were spilling down Aziraphale's face unheeded. The agony pierced him as though it were his own, and he wept for Orpheus, whose lover sat gazing blankly at nothing on the opposite side of the stage, unaware of the depths of his grief, already slipping into the forgetfulness of the dead. Aziraphale felt it all, a bone-deep sorrow settling into his body, its weight heavy and cold.

Persephone took her husband's hand, her face streaked with tears, and nodded. Hades sighed and snapped his fingers. Eurydice got to her feet, her motions slow and her gait unsteady, limping on her wounded ankle into the throne room, where she stood a few feet directly behind the man who had been the love of her life. _Do not look back,_ Orpheus was warned, _not until you have both crossed past the gates of Hades and into the land of the living_. Together, he and Eurydice set off on their long journey.

Aziraphale mopped at his eyes with a tartan handkerchief, suddenly grateful that he had come to watch alone. He hadn't expected to be so emotional, he thought, pressing his hand against the knot that had seemed to have coiled up tightly against his heart.

He watched as Orpheus led Eurydice up a raised platform and back down onto the stage. Fog machines and well-placed lights created a powerful impression of the despair that pervaded the underworld. Every now and then Orpheus sang, calling to Eurydice, his voice growing tenser, more desperate every time – but she never answered, and even her footsteps were silent. Orpheus disappeared briefly behind a gauzy curtain, followed by Eurydice, before they descended from the stage to step into the audience.

As they walked across the hall, down the wide aisle that separated the stage from the first row of seats, Aziraphale saw Orpheus up close for the first time. His eyes were a surprising shade of brown, almost golden in the brightness of the floodlights. He looked up at the stage, and Aziraphale and the rest of the audience followed his gaze as the set shifted once more, revealing the gates of Hades and the sunlit land that lay beyond it.

"Not far off now," Orpheus whispered, as he walked a few steps nearer to the stairs that would lead them back up to the stage. Suddenly, as though unable to restrain himself, he called his lover's name and turned around.

As he turned, the vivid golden gaze met Aziraphale's in the audience. In that flicker of a moment, their eyes locked, and his eyes widened slightly before he caught himself – turning the rest of the way to come face to face with Eurydice. But Aziraphale sat frozen in his seat, a sharp pain in his head, the shock of that split second leaving him breathless.

And yet the show went on, as though the foundations of Aziraphale’s very being hadn’t just been shaken with the force of an earthquake.

For a long moment, Eurydice simply gazed at Orpheus as a joyous smile broke on his face, holding out his arms to her. But to his disbelief, she stepped back, farther and farther away, shaking her head at him.

"You did wrong to defy the gods and come for me, Orpheus," she whispered, her voice echoing in the silence of the theatre. "You mock them with your hubris. Did you really think they would allow your love to return to you?" She laughed aloud, the sound brittle and unreal. "What could Eurydice complain of, except that she had been loved?"

There was a lump in Aziraphale's throat to see the stunned look on Orpheus's face as the apparition of his wife took one backward step after another, whispering her mocking words, further and further away from the stairs that led back to the world of the living, before she finally exited into the wings. Orpheus collapsed to the ground, a single heart-rending sound ripped from his throat as the lights dimmed and turned off entirely.

For a second, all was silent. The heaviness that had settled in Aziraphale’s chest was so acute that tears were sliding down his cheeks again. Suddenly, the lights brightened once more as the audience began to clap, many of them standing to applaud Orpheus as he rose from where he lay crumpled on the ground, smiling as he ran back onstage for a moment, bowing quickly before disappearing into the wings.

Aziraphale rose to his feet along with the crowd, but his mind was distracted, his head aching with the unexpected outburst of emotion. For some reason, it had given him a shock when Orpheus had fallen to the ground, the silver leaves glinting against the titian red of his hair – there had been a strange echo of overwhelming fear in Aziraphale's mind at that precise moment.

Orpheus re-entered from backstage to take his bow with the rest of the cast, gracefully acknowledging the thunderous applause. But his gaze slid down, and his eyes met Aziraphale's once more. Suddenly, something about his smile seemed like it was glued on, sharp and shiny as broken glass.

And all of a sudden, Aziraphale knew he would be waiting by the back door until the cast was done celebrating the victory of their wildly successful opening night, until _he_ stepped out from backstage and looked at Aziraphale once more with those tawny eyes of his.

Not Orpheus. _Crowley_.

\--

**Monday 21 October 2019, 11:00 PM**

Aziraphale stood watching the cast members laughing and taking photos with people from the audience. Crowley had a pen out and was signing some programmes with a gratified look on his face, as though he hadn’t been expecting it. A smile rose to Aziraphale's lips at the sight of Crowley looking so pleased.

He was reluctant to approach Crowley while he was so obviously enjoying himself. But he saw Crowley looking around as though he was looking for something – or _someone_ , Aziraphale thought, his cheeks suddenly warm – in between all the selfies and hand shaking.

At last, as the crowd around the cast dispersed, Crowley gazed around one last time with a despondent look on his face. But when he caught sight of Aziraphale at last, his eyes suddenly lit up. He hurried toward Aziraphale, his hand patting down his red curls nervously.

“Erm, hey.” Crowley leaned against the wall next to Aziraphale, trying to look casual about it but failing utterly – it was clearly staged, the sort of thing Crowley must have practiced in front of the mirror for a role. Aziraphale nearly laughed out loud at how surprisingly endearing it was. Crowley’s formidable stage presence was certainly different from how Crowley was in person. “I – I saw you earlier. In the audience.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, suddenly overflowing with joy. What a ridiculous creature Crowley was – somehow, that never seemed to change. “I wanted to congratulate you. It was a fantastic performance.”

Crowley made a sound comprised entirely of consonants in the back of his throat. He looked down at his feet, then turned to look behind him for a moment before his eyes darted toward Aziraphale and back down to his feet, his face red. Aziraphale was thoroughly amused.

“Ngrk. It was nothing, don’t mention it. Listen, I was wondering, er…”

“Yes?” Aziraphale waited patiently for Crowley to stop stammering.

“If you wanted to… grab a drink.”

“Right now?” Aziraphale glanced discreetly behind Crowley, where his castmates were talking raucously and laughing in a large group. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with the cast?”

“S’alright. They won’t miss me.”

“Crowley, you’re the leading man.”

He looked sharply at Aziraphale before his eyes fell on the souvenir programme that Aziraphale held. “Oh, I see how it is. Bit unfair, that. You already know my name and I don’t know yours.”

That stung more than Aziraphale cared to admit. “Don’t worry. Maybe later you’ll remember.” He tried to smile.

“Maybe.” Crowley was gazing at him so intently that Aziraphale could feel his face heating up. “So was that a yes to the drink?”

“I – well –”

Aziraphale looked behind Crowley to see that some of the cast members were already looking their way, pointing in Crowley’s direction. Crowley turned around to see what he was looking at – and suddenly, there was a look of mischief on his face.

“What are you so worried about? They see me nearly every day. They’ll be fine.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley took his hand, pulling them out of the theatre and into a side alley. Without warning, he took off running, his grip warm and firm around Aziraphale’s hand as they raced down the alley. They emerged on the other side, breathless and laughing.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” There was a look of exhilaration on Crowley’s face, his eyes bright from running, and Aziraphale’s heart gave a hard tug to see him like this, radiant with joy. “Come on.”

Crowley pulled them into a nearby pub, and before long, they were seated in a booth with mugs of Belgian beer, a basket of steaming fish and chips sitting between them.

“Is this alright? I didn’t get to ask.” Crowley looked up nervously at Aziraphale as the beer was served. “It’s nothing swanky, but…”

“It’s _your_ night, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded him. “We shall do whatever you like. Beer might not be my first choice of alcohol, but I certainly do enjoy it.”

He lifted the mug, looking expectantly at Crowley until he took the hint and picked up his own mug.

“Cheers.” Crowley’s face broke into a smile.

“To your marvellous performance.” Aziraphale smiled and clinked their mugs together before taking a sip. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the beer was quite delicious.

“What’re you looking all shocked for?” Crowley asked, his eyebrow raised in an infuriatingly familiar way. “I do have good taste, you know.” He smirked at Aziraphale, the meaning of his words unmistakeable.

Aziraphale could feel the heat rising to his face. He picked up the lemon wedge to distract himself, squeezing it over the fish and chips before pushing the basket nearer to Crowley. “I know you don’t eat much, but I think you should have something to eat after that show. I’m sure you must be hungry.”

“How could you possibly know…” Crowley’s voice trailed off as he grimaced suddenly, a hand moving up to rub at his temple. Aziraphale watched him as the look of confusion on his face slowly shifted into something more complicated.

 _You know me,_ Aziraphale thought, his heart thudding a steady drumbeat against his ribs _. Please recognise me._

“Are you alright, Crowley?”

“Yeah, I –” Crowley clenched his eyes shut for a second. “I’m just…”

“Trying to remember something?” Aziraphale asked quietly. 

Crowley’s head whipped up, astonished. “How did you know that?”

“Because, well. I wonder if we’re remembering the same thing, I suppose.” Aziraphale murmured. “Go on, have a bite.”

Crowley’s face was thoughtful as he took a chip from the basket, chewing absently.

“I knew it. We know each other, don’t we?”

Aziraphale tried to sound cheerful around the sudden tightness in his throat. “That’s right. We do. It’ll come back to you later, you’ll see.” _Please remember me, Crowley._ The chip he helped himself to tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Okay.” Crowley looked unsure, the corners of his mouth pulled down. “You alright?”

“Me? Oh, yes. Not to worry. Why don’t you eat a little more?”

Crowley obediently took another chip, chewed and swallowed. “Look, if you’d rather go… if this is weird or if I’m making you uncomfortable –”

“No! Not at all.” Aziraphale was reaching across the table before his mind had the chance to tell him to stop. He blushed to the roots of his hair and pulled his hand away before he realised that Crowley was already reaching across the table for him. A shadow of hurt crossed Crowley’s features briefly before he turned his head away, already pulling his hand back.

 _Oh, dear._ Aziraphale’s hands were twisting together in his lap, unable to bear the look on Crowley’s face. Slowly, Aziraphale untangled his fingers from one another. Hesitantly, he laid his hand on the table, his palm facing up.

For an awful moment, he thought that Crowley might decide he didn’t want to reciprocate after all – but it was only for a moment. Crowley reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand, looking rather as though the touch knocked the breath right out of him, and it was altogether too endearing. Aziraphale smiled at him and traced circles into the back of his hand with his thumb.

“Why don’t you tell me about your day?”

That seemed to do the trick. Crowley immediately launched into a litany of the day’s woes, everything from the theatre’s obnoxious errand boy to a minor wardrobe mishap he had gotten into while he had been getting ready for the second act. Aziraphale gazed at him, entranced by how animated his face was, only interrupting him gently to remind him to eat every now and then. Crowley ate one-handed with a fork, as though unwilling to let go of Aziraphale even just for a second.

“Nearly broke character for a moment there, you know. When I turned and saw you sitting there.”

“Why?”

“Dunno.” Crowley was chasing around a piece of fish on his plate, not looking at Aziraphale. “Got a weird feeling. Good weird,” he said hastily. “But weird.”

“Like you knew me from somewhere?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Guess so. But not exactly. It felt like… you were exactly who I wanted to see.” Crowley looked up at him through his lashes, suddenly bashful. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Aziraphale’s hand tightened around Crowley’s. “Not even the slightest.”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 1:30 AM**

“How about we go for a walk? I think I might need to sober up.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Aziraphale pulled out his wallet, adamantly refusing all of Crowley’s offers to pay, and counted out enough to cover their bill and a generous tip besides.

“It’s so cold out tonight,” Aziraphale fretted, fussing over Crowley’s thin jacket outside the pub before pulling off his own scarf and wrapping it around Crowley’s neck.

“Tartan scarf, really?” Crowley grumbled, his face bright red as Aziraphale tucked in the ends of the scarf neatly into his jacket.

“Tartan is stylish!”

A pained expression crossed Crowley’s face suddenly. He tried to school his face into something more neutral, but Aziraphale had already seen it.

“Are you feeling alright?” Aziraphale asked, his eyebrows knitting together. “Maybe you need to get some rest.”

“Yeah. Probably just the alcohol.”

Crowley’s knuckles brushed against Aziraphale’s lightly, and without thinking, he took Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and realised how close they were standing together, so close that Aziraphale could see how the lines around his eyes softened in the dim light, gazing at him with something like reverence.

“Yes. _Yes_.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s hand up to cup his face, the golden eyes suddenly beseeching. They were so close that Aziraphale could feel the warmth of Crowley’s breath brushing against his face. His heart was pounding hard, his throat tightening as he thought of the last time that he had kissed Crowley – would Crowley ever remember it?

Aziraphale tilted his face up, trying to still the quivering of his mouth, suddenly at once hopeful and terrified. When their lips met, Aziraphale was surprised to feel Crowley trembling, and he broke their kiss abruptly and took a shuddering breath.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, like a benediction. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stood, unable to move or speak, the tightly wound coil in his chest suddenly loosening as the wave of relief came crashing down on him.

“I got it right, didn’t I?” Crowley asked uncertainly. His hand came up and a knuckle brushed against Aziraphale’s cheek, taking a drop of moisture with it. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” Aziraphale’s voice trembled, and there was a hitch in his breath that he desperately tried in vain to control, and oh dear, why was his face so wet?

“Hey. What is it?” Suddenly, his face was buried against Crowley’s shoulder, Crowley’s warmth enveloping him on every side as Crowley’s slender arms wrapped around him, holding him close. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”

Aziraphale’s laugh was a broken sound scraping itself out of his throat. “I’ve done nothing but cry all evening, didn’t you notice?”

“I did.” Crowley’s arms tightened around him. “You were thinking about this, weren’t you?”

It took Aziraphale’s breath away just as it had last time, shocked him to the core how well Crowley knew him, understood him even better than Aziraphale did himself. It was too much – he couldn’t bear to look at this in the face just yet. _A few minutes more_ , he pleaded silently to whoever in the universe might have been listening, _let us have this for a little while longer,_ as Crowley tugged out a black handkerchief from his pocket, _give us a little more time,_ as the handkerchief lightly wiped away the salt on his face, _let me keep him, please._

“I’m being silly, that’s all,” Aziraphale said, trying to smile. He gazed at Crowley, suddenly astounded by how beautiful he was, the sculpted edges of his face thrown into sharp relief by the shadows, highlighting the delicate cheekbones, the aquiline nose. “You were really _very_ good, my dear. Spectacularly so.”

Crowley made a strangled sound in the back of his throat at Aziraphale’s praise, his shoulders hitched up close to his ears as he stared determinedly at a spot three inches to the left of Aziraphale’s face. “Turned out okay, I guess.”

“It was wonderful. I had no idea you could sing so beautifully.”

Crowley groaned aloud and took Aziraphale’s hand, tucking it under his arm. “That’s enough. Come on, we need to sober up.”

“We’re not even that drunk,” Aziraphale protested, but he allowed Crowley to tug him along as they ambled aimlessly down the softly lit street.

Already the cold air was helping to clear his head. For a while they walked, and spoke quietly of other things – how the critics in the front row next to Aziraphale had been buzzing excitedly about the play after it had ended, the surprising quality of the food in the little pub they had visited, the sharpness of the cold weather, Crowley’s refusal to wear anything other than black and grey, except for maybe the occasional accent of red – until at last, there was nothing else that could keep the strangeness that lingered around them at bay, no matter how much they tried.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said finally, and Aziraphale’s heart sank. “We should talk about this now. While we can. Try to figure out what’s happening.”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s hand tightened around Crowley’s arm. “I know we should.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, I can feel it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “No, you’re right. We should.”

“It’s getting pretty late.” Crowley cleared his throat, the muscles in his arm tensing. “You can – you can stay at my place. If you like.”

The sudden flash of pain in Aziraphale’s head only compounded the dread of having to confront all of what was happening to them, all the bizarre things that were in his mind. All he could be certain of right now was that he didn’t want to have to let go of Crowley for a second longer than he needed to.

“Yes. I’d like to, if that’s alright.”

Crowley smiled at him. “Let’s walk around for a bit longer. Don’t want to get us killed driving around Central London.”

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 3:30 AM**

It was a modest one-bedroom flat Crowley lived in, but what little furniture and décor he had were all obviously carefully chosen. A sleek couch in a rich shade of dark red, a black teak wood coffee table, a flat screen TV, an immense array of indoor plants arranged meticulously along one side. Above the couch was a small framed artwork of –

“Crowley…” Aziraphale said slowly, disbelieving. _“Is that a_ _Picasso sketch on your wall?”_

“Oh, that.” Crowley shrugged. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale stared at it open-mouthed. “Do you have any idea how much that is _worth?”_

“Well, yeah. I like art. Picked up a few pieces here and there over the years.” Crowley spoke in an offhand tone, as though they were merely discussing the weather, without offering any explanation. “D’you want some tea? It'll only be a minute. Go on, make yourself at home.”

The words struck Aziraphale as he sat down on the couch – that was exactly how being with Crowley made him feel. _At home._

He was surprised to find the couch much more comfortable than it looked. He looked up to see Crowley heating up water in a tiny kettle, pulling out a couple of mugs and a box of tea bags from a cabinet and setting them on the counter.

“Have you lived here long?”

“Nah. Moved here when I got into the company so that I could be nearby. Just a place to sleep, really.”

How painfully domestic this all was, Aziraphale thought to himself, the knot in his chest already beginning to coil itself up once more. _At home. We’re at home._ He got up from the couch to where Crowley stood watching the kettle. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around Crowley's middle and pulled him close, tucking his chin into the divot where neck met shoulder. The shoulder blades pressed against Aziraphale’s chest shifted as Crowley inhaled in surprise.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Aziraphale whispered. "I – I was so frightened."

"Of what?" Crowley’s hand settled on his arm, squeezed gently.

"That you might have forgotten me." He shut his eyes and pressed his cheek against the thin frame of Crowley’s shoulder, breathing in – the scent of Crowley so deeply embedded in his memory that the recognition of it was visceral, the body remembering where the mind did not. They stood like that for a long moment, pressed close together until the kettle started to whistle.

“Come on, Aziraphale. A cup of tea will make you feel better, it always does.”

But Aziraphale couldn’t seem to unlock his arms. A small sound escaped his throat, and he buried his face against Crowley’s neck, embarrassed.

“Fine, suit yourself,” Crowley sighed, but Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice as he picked up the kettle, carefully keeping one hand pressed against Aziraphale’s arms around his waist so that he wouldn’t accidentally scald himself. Crowley took a few steps closer to the counter to pour the hot water into the mugs, and Aziraphale moved with him, their footsteps in unison. Aziraphale listened to Crowley’s even breathing, the steady beat of his heart, felt the muscles of his body shifting as he put the kettle back on the stove and ripped open the packaging of the tea bags.

Aziraphale looked up just a bit over Crowley’s shoulder to see the tea bags already steeping. Crowley was watching him out of the corner of his eye, his forehead furrowed.

“You gonna let me turn around yet?”

“When the tea’s finished steeping.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Whenever you want. I’m really not complaining.” His thumb stroked Aziraphale’s arm rhythmically, and they were quiet for some time.

“S’nice, this.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “We didn’t have this before.”

“What do you mean?”

“This… I don’t know.” Aziraphale was blushing for some reason, and he was glad Crowley couldn’t see it. “You really weren’t in any state last time.”

“You can say that again,” Crowley snorted, but Aziraphale felt his body tensing suddenly. “How long are we letting this tea steep? I don’t remember you particularly caring for the flavour of tannins.”

Aziraphale sighed and finally withdrew as Crowley tossed the tea bags into a nearby bin. He picked up the mugs and held them out to Aziraphale. “Pick your poison. Earl Grey or jasmine?”

“Earl Grey, please.” He held out his hands and accepted the black mug, suddenly noticing the white mug Crowley held. “Crowley, are those angel wings on your mug?”

To his surprise, a light flush spread over Crowley’s face. “Er, yeah. Thought they reminded me of… something.” He looked suddenly unsettled, and he looked away. “Let’s go sit down.”

They sat, and Crowley stretched himself over the arm of the couch and triumphantly held up a black wool blanket, spreading it carefully over Aziraphale and himself. He proceeded to slouch at what looked like an impossible angle to Aziraphale and propped his feet up on the coffee table, scowling when Aziraphale frowned at him in disapproval.

“I’m in my flat. I can sit how I want.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he sipped his tea, warming from the inside out. “Just be careful not to knock the tea over.”

“Trust me, that tea wouldn’t dare spill itself on my floor.” Crowley looked over at Aziraphale with a smirk. “I’m not a big tea drinker anyway.”

Pain seared through Aziraphale’s head as he tried to remember. Crowley preferred coffee, he realised, but the images that came with it were strange and obscure – Crowley with a cup of coffee and a barely-touched plate of crepes. Crowley gazing at his cup in a dimly lit café, lost in thought. Crowley loudly striking an empty cup with a silver spoon.

“Coffee. You like coffee,” Aziraphale found himself murmuring.

“That’s right.” The corner of Crowley’s mouth turned up. “Too late for it now, though.” He cleared his throat, and it was as though the atmosphere between them shifted, suddenly charged. “Time for that talk now, I think.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale could feel the dread building again, a cold weight settling into his stomach. His fingers clenched around the blanket and he swallowed around the dryness of his throat, opened his mouth to speak. But before he could, Crowley’s warm hand covered his own. He looked up to see Crowley gazing at him, his eyebrows drawn together in a troubled expression.

“You don’t want to talk about it.” It wasn’t a question.

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s not that. Of course we need to talk.”

“Then why have you been looking at me like that this whole time?” Crowley’s hand tightened around Aziraphale’s, the lines around his eyes pinched. “Like you don’t want…” His voice trailed off suddenly.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. “I just –” _I wanted a little more time. Just a few minutes more._ “I’m worried,” he said instead.

“I know. Me too. But the sooner we figure things out, the better it will be, I think.”

“Yes. I hope so.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, steeling himself. “How would you like to begin?”

“Maybe let’s try to sort out what we remember? Because I think at this point, I can safely say that there’s something weird going on and that we definitely aren’t making it up in our heads.” Crowley looked up at him anxiously. “Right?”

“I agree. This would be a rather elaborate delusion otherwise.”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains…”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, surprised. “It must be the truth then, dear Watson.”

“Why do _you_ get to be Sherlock?” Crowley complained, prodding Aziraphale’s arm as he laughed. “Right. Okay. No getting distracted. Anyway. We should probably check if what we’ve got matches up, just to make sure.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale thought for a moment, trying to organise his thoughts. “The last time I remember seeing you, you were badly hurt, I think. We were in… an office of some sort? Something exploded.”

“Yeah. S’all really confusing, though. Don’t remember much of it. My head really hurt.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now. You had a concussion, Crowley.” The ghost of the fear he had felt seeing Orpheus collapse to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut loose was hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Aziraphale’s chest. “I – I couldn’t wake you. We needed to take you to the hospital, but we couldn’t.”

Crowley sat silently for a long moment, staring into space. “I really don’t remember much of that.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, not knowing what to say. He barely even knew what to make of all this – as though what was happening to them was something straight out of a science fiction novel. “You weren’t conscious for most of it.”

Crowley groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. “Aziraphale, I can’t wrap my head around this. You sure this isn’t some weird fever dream we’re both having?”

“I wish it were.”

“Right, okay.” Crowley scrubbed his hand over his face, exhaling loudly through his nose. “Okay. We’re not delusional, and something weird is going on. Why not take it all the way? Maybe we’re remembering our past lives or something.” The laugh that came out of his mouth was nearly hysterical.

“Whatever remains, however improbable –”

“I was joking.”

“But what if that’s it?” The wheels in Aziraphale’s mind had started turning. “Can you think of any other explanation for all of this? Honestly, Crowley, there isn’t one.”

“Aziraphale, what is even _real_ anymore?” Crowley groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I was a fucking _gangster_ in that one! Are you trying to tell me all these things are actually happening? What’s next, we’re getting pulled out of each life as soon as we meet each other?”

Aziraphale glanced at him sharply, the turn of phrase suddenly tugging at another memory. “Crowley, there was something I meant to tell you then. But I never got to because… you never woke up.”

“What?” Crowley’s eyebrows contracted, a deep furrow forming in between.

“I can’t recall why I was thinking it…” Aziraphale said slowly. “But I was going to tell you that we only had one night. Do you have any idea what that might mean?”

Crowley fell silent. Aziraphale could see his jaw clenching and unclenching as he sat lost in thought for a long moment.

“You’re a bloody genius.” Crowley slouched back against the couch, his mouth turned down in a frown.

“What is it?”

“There’s a timer or something. Starts ticking when we meet,” Crowley muttered. The knuckles of his hand were white, standing out sharply against the wool blanket. “Which means –”

“We only get a certain amount of time, each time we meet –”

“And we’re on the clock right now,” Crowley finished. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly through his lips, but Aziraphale heard the hitch in Crowley’s breath, and his heart sank.

“Yes… I rather think we are.”

Crowley laughed shortly. “Well, if that was the only performance I was ever going to have at the West End, I’m glad it was a raging success.”

Aziraphale reached for him, his chest tightening with distress. “Crowley –”

“What?” Crowley flung the blanket away, swinging his legs down onto the floor and towering above Aziraphale suddenly. “Are you going to tell me it’s going to be alright? That we’re going to be able to fix things somehow?” He laughed aloud. “This is _fucking insane,_ Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale sat motionless, watching Crowley pacing back and forth, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Crowley, I know it doesn’t make any sense, but –”

“But what? Are you going to say it’s…” His voice trailed off as his hand waved through the air, trying to find the right word. “It’s _ineffable,_ or something? Christ.”

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s anger as though the heat of it was a tangible thing, blazing hot and scorching. “Crowley, please –”

“What the fuck is going on? I finally get something good going for me, and then _this_ happens? Do you have any idea how long it took for me to get here? How much I’ve had to give –” Crowley stopped himself, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t. Because you never met me until today.” He rounded on Aziraphale. “You have no idea who I am or what my life has been,” he snarled. “And now I’m going to lose everything I’ve worked for – for _this?”_

 _Too much_. Aziraphale looked away, his throat tightening. “I – I didn’t ask for this either, you know.”

Suddenly, Crowley was on his knees, kneeling at his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He took Aziraphale’s hand in both of his own. “Aziraphale, please look at me,” he begged.

Aziraphale exhaled loudly and gazed down at Crowley, his eyes wide and fearful. A pang went through him to see Crowley kneeling there, he shouldn’t do that, it looked all wrong, he shouldn’t – “Crowley, get up. You’re being ridiculous.”

Crowley didn’t move. “Aziraphale. I didn’t mean it. I apologise.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, pressed the knuckles against his lips, a supplicant begging to be forgiven. “I – I don’t know what came over me.”

“I forgive you, if that’s what you need to hear. Even if there’s nothing to forgive,” Aziraphale whispered, and he meant it. “It’s all true, what you said. You have so much to lose. And I don’t even know who you are or what you’ve been through.” It nearly broke his heart to say it out loud. “You’ve lived nearly a whole lifetime without me.”

“No! You know me, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale was shocked to see the golden eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “Better than anyone. Just like I know you.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale smoothed his hand softly over the red curls, tugging at him by the elbows, guiding him back onto the couch to sit next to him. “I know. Come here.”

Crowley allowed himself to be guided back onto the couch and enfolded in Aziraphale’s arms. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, shivering slightly.

“We will figure it out,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing his lips against the crown of red hair that lay on his shoulder. “I’m quite clever, you know.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley huff against his skin. “You are, I’ll give you that.” He took a long shaky breath. “Look, Aziraphale. What else can you remember? Apart from that frankly unbelievable criminal life we were apparently leading?”

“Nothing else specific, really. Just some… I don’t know, images? They’re all disconnected from each other. None of them make sense.”

“Like what?”

“Remember just a little while ago, when I remembered you liked coffee?”

“What about it?”

“Well, it reminded me of some things.” It took some concentration through the aching of Aziraphale's head, but he could still recall them. “You were eating crepes in one of them. Or _not_ eating crepes, I suppose. You barely ate two bites.”

“That’s weird. I don’t remember anything like that… But I remember _you_ eating crepes,” Crowley said cautiously. “Enjoying them a fair bit, too,” he added, the tips of his ears suddenly turning red. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s brow contracted. “How strange. I don’t remember that. But I could be wrong. It doesn’t make much sense to me, either.”

“That reminds me, how did you figure out the one night thing?” Crowley asked.

“I – I don’t know. I only know I meant to tell you that, but I didn’t get the chance to.”

Crowley sat up suddenly, his gaze fixed on Aziraphale intently. “Do you remember us meeting in an art gallery?”

“An art gallery?” Aziraphale thought for a moment, but it didn’t ring any bells. “No.”

“What about at a museum? In the middle of the night?”

“No.” Aziraphale was starting to get alarmed. “Crowley, what are you talking about?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley grasped his arm suddenly, his eyes full of fear. “What about in the stairwell of a bar?" His hand was trembling on Aziraphale's arm. "Or sobering up at a convenience store, or going to my –” He stopped abruptly, took a shuddering breath. “Do you remember that?”

Aziraphale racked his brains, thinking hard, but there was nothing – not even the ache that seemed to always come with the effort of trying to recall.

“No, nothing like that.” Aziraphale’s heart tightened at the stricken look on Crowley’s face. “Crowley, what’s wrong?”

Crowley’s lips moved, but no sound came out. For a long moment, his eyes gazed into the distance, seeing nothing.

“Okay,” he whispered at last, his voice rasping. “I think I’ve had enough for one night.” He huddled into a ball in the corner of the couch, still staring blankly into space, somehow looking even more vulnerable than when he had been kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet.

“My dear, you’ve had a dreadfully long day.” Aziraphale moved tentatively closer, and when no objection was forthcoming, sat right next to Crowley, so that their shoulders were pressed together. “How about you get some rest for now?”

Crowley made an odd noise in his throat, and his head dropped down against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Emotional whiplash,” he said suddenly. “Always wondered what that meant. Now I know.”

“You’re a theatre actor, Crowley.”

“Exactly. For now.” Crowley laughed, the brittle edge sharp against Aziraphale’s heart. He sighed, pulling away. “Sorry. You’re right. I’m probably just tired.”

Aziraphale’s fingers were twisting themselves together in his lap again. “Do – do you want me to go?”

“No,” Crowley said after a long moment, his voice barely a whisper. “Stay. Please.”

He got to his feet and held out his hand to Aziraphale, and together they walked into his bedroom – completely empty but for a large bed covered in dark grey sheets and a small side table with a lamp and an alarm clock. A small chair sat in the corner, apropos of nothing. Crowley shrugged self-consciously, a hand running through his red curls.

“S’not much, really, I told you it was just a place to sleep and – _mmph_.”

Aziraphale cut off the last of his words with a kiss, searing hot and demanding, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be as close to Crowley as he could be. _Just a few minutes more,_ he thought again, a lump forming in his throat. _Let us have this, please._

It didn’t take long for Crowley to respond, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale, his lips parting easily, letting Aziraphale explore his mouth, sighing as Aziraphale’s hands slipped under his shirt to touch the smooth skin of his chest, his stomach, the sloping curve of his back, his narrow waist. Aziraphale’s hands dropped to his belt, but to his surprise, Crowley’s hand came down, stopping him. He pulled away from Aziraphale suddenly.

“Wait. Aziraphale.” Crowley’s chest was still rising and falling visibly – the break in his voice hadn’t escaped Aziraphale.

“What’s the matter?” Aziraphale’s hands stilled immediately, but to his surprise, he could feel Crowley’s hand trembling. “Are you alright, Crowley?”

Crowley nodded tightly, but he wouldn’t look Aziraphale in the eye. “I – don’t get me wrong, Aziraphale. I just… I can’t. Not tonight.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I want to. I do. But –”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale was distressed by the look on his face. “You don’t have to explain. If you don’t want to, we’ll stop.”

“Don’t want you to think I – I led you on or –”

“Crowley, no.” Aziraphale cupped his hands around Crowley’s face, genuinely concerned now. “I would never think that. I didn’t come here because I had _expectations,_ I only wanted to… be with you.”

Crowley still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s okay if you wanna leave. I get it.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Aziraphale whispered. “Unless you need to be alone. I can go.”

Crowley shook his head, his hand moving to grip Aziraphale’s wrist tightly. “I don’t.”

“That’s settled, then.” Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley softly, nothing but a light touch of his lips against Crowley’s. His own disappointment weighed nothing compared to the look on Crowley’s face. “Do you want to get ready for bed?”

Crowley nodded wordlessly and began stripping off his clothes without further ado, dropping everything onto the floor without a second thought, wriggling out of his tight black jeans until he was clad in nothing but a pair of black briefs. Aziraphale flushed, surprised at how Crowley's self-consciousness had suddenly fallen away, but when Crowley began helping Aziraphale undo his buttons, gently untying his bow tie with a single tug, Aziraphale felt a little more at ease. As though this was a perfectly normal thing, a routine they went through every night, undressing and getting into bed together.

There were no words to explain it, how easy it was to climb into Crowley’s bed, to curl himself around Crowley protectively as his breathing slowed and deepened into the measured rhythm of sleep, to press his lips against the soft red curls. _Home. We're home._ Aziraphale shut his eyes, more comfortable than he could ever remember being, until at last he drifted into sleep.

\--

**Tuesday 22 October 2019, 8:00 AM**

There was a strange buzzing noise in Aziraphale’s dream. Disoriented, he opened his eyes, blinking blearily. A thin figure came into focus, and he realised it was Crowley reaching over him to turn the alarm clock off.

Crowley slumped back down against the pillows, turning to face away from Aziraphale.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching out to touch Crowley. But the moment his fingers brushed Crowley’s skin, Crowley shied away, curling tightly in on his stomach as though to protect himself. Aziraphale jerked his hand away at the clear rebuff.

“Crowley? Are you alright?” Aziraphale sat up, fully awake now. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. S’fine. Nothing’s wrong.”

“ _Crowley.”_

Crowley sighed, all the fight leaving him with that one breath, his shoulders pulling in close to his ears. “My call time is 8:30 AM at the theatre.”

_Oh._

There it was again, that crushing pressure around his chest, the guilt and sadness and horror that he had been choking back for Crowley’s sake, when he saw that Crowley’s shoulders were trembling.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale wrapped himself around Crowley, pulling the blanket over his thin shoulders as sobs silently shook his body from head to toe. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this is happening.”

“No,” Crowley’s voice was muffled by bedclothes, nasal with emotion. “S’not your fault. I’m being stupid.”

“Crowley, you have every right to feel angry about what’s happening.”

“This isn’t fucking _right,_ Aziraphale, whatever this is.”

“I quite agree,” Aziraphale whispered, his arms tightening around Crowley. Slowly, Crowley’s anger subsided, until he lay quiet against Aziraphale. He rather thought that Crowley might have fallen asleep again, but he wiped his face with the heel of his hand and extricated himself from Aziraphale’s arms, crossing the room to the closet and pulling on a black t-shirt. It hung loosely on Crowley, and when he turned slightly in Aziraphale’s direction, he saw it was emblazoned with the words “Queen: A Day At The Races.”

“I’m gonna get the café downstairs to bring up some pastries. What do you want? Ah – never mind, I know.”

Crowley walked out of the room, typing on his phone. Aziraphale could hear him placing an order – coffee, two croissants with a side of blueberry compote, a fruit Danish and a slice of black forest cake. He blushed slightly. Crowley _did_ know what he wanted.

He got up and made the bed carefully, smoothing his hand over the wrinkles in the black fabric of the blanket. He pulled on his undershirt from the night before and decided that for modesty’s sake, he would probably feel more comfortable putting his trousers on too. He could hear Crowley singing quietly outside, and he recognised the poignant refrain – Orpheus begging the gods to return to his lover the rest of the life that she should have lived.

_“All things are destined to be yours,_  
_and though we delay a while,_  
_sooner or later, we hasten home.”_

The words tugged sharply at Aziraphale’s heart. He looked out past the open door to see Crowley yawning as he filled the kettle, turning on the stove to heat the water. _Just a few minutes more,_ Aziraphale thought, his throat suddenly burning. _Please. Let him have this, just a little while longer._

Abruptly, the room went dark, as though the blackout curtains of Crowley’s bedroom had drawn themselves of their own accord, the open doorway now the only source of light. Aziraphale found that he could no longer move – he was frozen where he stood, unable to even call out to Crowley. Through the terror that gripped him, he wondered why the darkness wasn’t spreading, why it stayed firmly in the bedroom where he stood alone. Aziraphale could only watch as Crowley turned absentmindedly from the kitchen, his eyes suddenly widening as he caught sight of Aziraphale already half-hidden in shadow. As though from very far away, Aziraphale saw the white mug fall from Crowley’s hands, heard the loud crash as it shattered into pieces on the floor.

“No… no, angel, wait, _no!_ ”

The door slammed shut between them and Aziraphale was engulfed in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) and to ~anonymous~ for beta-ing this chapter! 
> 
> And thanks so much to everyone who's been reading this. I've never really had a multi-chapter fic that people kept up with, and I've been overwhelmed by the lovely feedback I've been getting. I'm sorry I haven't been replying to comments - been low on spoons this week. But all your love has been keeping me going! Thank you!
> 
> Upped the chapter count to 8, because gosh, these two. So insistent on living all the life they possibly can. (I don't blame them in the least.) Do subscribe if you liked this fic! I'll be working on the seventh chapter this week - wish me luck, because whew. We are going on a _ride_.
> 
> In case you were interested in reading the English translation for Orpheus and Eurydice where the lines for the play are from, you can find it [here](https://ovid.lib.virginia.edu/trans/Metamorph10.htm).
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	6. The Right to be Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley, please,” Aziraphale called out to him one last time, his voice thin and despondent.
> 
> For a moment, Crowley hesitated. Thought of Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt, looking back at the burning carnage of what was left of her old life. _Don’t look back_. Orpheus, taking one fatal glance that cost him the love of his life forever. He gritted his teeth and kept walking. _There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 27.
> 
> Memory is incomplete–lost.  
> The world is incomplete–vanishing.
> 
> Nothing more happens. You open your eyes and it’s over.
> 
> \- "Spaces", Arkaye Kierulf
> 
> \--
> 
> This is a heavy chapter, take care if you are feeling tender today. *points meaningfully to the newly-added "Happy Ending" tag*
> 
> (I keep forgetting that I want to do this but) the song for this chapter is [cellophane by FKA twigs](https://open.spotify.com/track/3VwZqgfrM3xb1usuLprkTu?si=4harBXVMSpmUZXzV_r3_Zg)!

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

“For fuck’s sake, bloody _move_ –”

Crowley fought through the rushing crowd and got an elbow in the ribs for it, squeezing past the train doors right in the nick of time before they slid shut behind him. He leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath. Thank _someone_ that most people got off at the next station. He absolutely hated standing so near to the door, hated the jostling of knees and elbows, suitcases and purses swinging in every direction.

There was nothing about public transport that he didn’t resent, but the universe didn’t give him much of a choice today – his beloved car was at the shop for maintenance, and with the unpredictable weather, there wasn’t a taxi to be had at this time of day. He gritted his teeth and set himself to endure the next half hour in the company of his fellow disgruntled afternoon commuters, trying to ignore the drops of sweat that were beading at his temples.

Thankfully, the train arrived at the next station without much incident, and Crowley managed to sidle his way through the crush of people into a relatively empty space in the middle of the carriage before the next herd of passengers crowded into the train. Enough room for him to fish his earbuds out of his pocket, connect them via Bluetooth to his phone, and begin listening to _The Best of Velvet Underground._

_White light, white light going up messin’ up my mind…_

It was always enough to get him into a reasonably calm headspace, enough that he could endure the twenty-seven-minute commute back to the office without murdering anyone else in his vicinity. He leaned against a metal pole, wiped his forehead absently with the cuff of one sleeve, and tried not to check his email – anything was better than that. Even the news was better than having to look at whatever had landed in his inbox while he was out. The thought of his meeting with Bentley Motors in a few hours already had his stomach in knots. Newt would send him a text if there was anything important.

The train mercifully emptied around him at the next station, but he had already successfully zoned out enough that he no longer noticed the people around him. He’d be back in just a couple more stops. Just a few more minutes of hell to endure.

Crowley looked up from his phone at the next station, lost in his thoughts as commuters poured out of the train and slowly flowed back in. His eyes refocused on the train directly across them full of harassed passengers stuffed elbow to elbow. The man directly across him took off his sunglasses, massaging the bridge of his nose as though it pained him. He looked up, his face momentarily uncovered. Honey-brown eyes met Crowley’s blue ones.

For a moment, Crowley’s heart stuttered, and a flash of pain went through his head suddenly. He felt as though time stopped as he locked eyes with a red-haired stranger on the train on the other side of the platform.

No – that was no stranger.

_Aziraphale._

Before he knew it, he was elbowing his way through the throng of people, affronted glares and huffs thrown in his direction as he tried to fight his way to the carriage doors – _wait, Aziraphale, wait –_

But before he could get to the doors, they had already slid shut, hissing as they sealed into place. He pushed his way to the clear glass of the doors and looked up to see Aziraphale’s eyes still fixed on him, wide and disbelieving, the dark sunglasses tucked haphazardly into the pocket of his coat. His lips parted soundlessly, his golden eyes distraught, palm pressed flat against the glass.

Crowley stood frozen as the train he was in began to move, accelerating slowly. _Down for you is up,_ Lou Reed crooned into Crowley’s ear as he watched Aziraphale’s train pulling away in the other direction.

 _There’s no need to panic_ , he thought to himself wildly, completely disregarding the annoyed glances of the commuters around him. He’d just get off at the next station and get on the train back to – his heart clenched when he realised that he didn’t even have the faintest idea where Aziraphale was going. He stepped back, inadvertently bumping into whoever was standing behind him and earning himself a poke in the shoulder with an umbrella, though he was certainly past caring.

Crowley squinted at the route map as the train pulled into Earl’s Court, trying to think. His eyes ran through the stations one by one – _St. James’s Park,_ he thought suddenly, not knowing why that seemed like a likely destination, but he’d learned by now that his gut seemed to know the right way to go.

The next few minutes were a blur of sliding train doors and shoving past crowds of faceless strangers until he was finally on the right train back to St. James’s Park. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely registered that his phone was playing “Pale Blue Eyes” on loop – he must have accidentally set it to repeat one – and the song’s calm tempo was almost hilariously incongruous with the agitation that was bubbling in him. Maybe he should have had something more than coffee today, the acid burning in his throat as he tried not to cough with anxiety.

The train was so crowded there was barely enough room for Crowley to breathe, let alone pull his phone out of his pocket. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on the rhythm of the song, the gentle guitar riff midway through that always managed to reel him in.

Finally, _finally_ the train came to a stop at St. James’s Park, and Crowley was the first person off the train. _Skip a life completely, stuff it in a cup,_ Lou Reed warbled as Crowley fumbled and dropped his rail card on the ground twice trying to get through the turnstile, cursing aloud as he nearly crashed headlong into a university student in front of him who suddenly came to a stop to check his phone, taking the stairs two at a time and almost tripping over his own feet in his haste.

When Crowley at last made it out of the station, unpleasantly damp with sweat and panting for breath, an unexpected wave of relief washed over him when he spotted the familiar – _familiar? –_ head of cropped red hair standing just a little way from the steps leading to the Tube, and for a second, Crowley felt unsteady on his feet. His heart leapt to see the way Aziraphale’s eyes were searching the crowd… as though he was waiting for someone. Unconsciously, he smoothed his hand over his dishevelled blonde curls, tried to iron out the wrinkles of his clothes with the flat of his hand as he walked towards Aziraphale in a daze. How long had he been waiting this time? He shook the thought off quickly. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale was here now.

Crowley’s heart was pounding a loud staccato against his ribs. He wondered what Aziraphale would be like this time. Some lives it was harder to recognise Aziraphale than in others, but some things were always the same. The minute shifts of expression that crossed his face – those never changed. The way he kissed Crowley, demanding and intent. The innate warmth, the blinding smile.

But as Crowley approached Aziraphale, another figure stepped out of the shadows of the nearby intersection – dark hair, stylish clothes, an arm wrapping itself around Aziraphale’s waist. For a moment, it was as though Crowley’s body had forgotten how to move, his muscles locking in place and rendering him motionless on the sidewalk mid-stride. The familiar strains of the Velvet Underground were drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. _It was good what we did yesterday, and I'd do it once again_. He nearly ripped out his earbuds to hurl them into the street, disintegrating under the uncaring movement of the traffic that rushed on by.

It was like a bad dream, Crowley thought distantly, trying to force himself to move, his legs moving at the pace of honey on a cold day, simultaneously running away and running towards – _Aziraphale_ , his mind screamed fruitlessly, his muscles refusing to respond, frozen as they were with shock and disbelief.

At the very last moment before the pedestrian sign turned green, Aziraphale tentatively looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Crowley.

Crowley felt broken open under that one glance, completely undone, wanting nothing more than to stagger home and curl up around the flayed remains of his heart. He could barely breathe through the tightness of his chest, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. Before he could do anything embarrassing like call out to Aziraphale or fly apart into pieces right there on the sidewalk, the nameless man who had his hand on Aziraphale's elbow looked down at Aziraphale and spoke, and Aziraphale turned to him and answered, a small smile on his face, and together they crossed the busy street and vanished from sight.

 _That was that_ , Crowley thought, his mind numb. He turned and began walking in the other direction, scarcely aware of where he was going, only knowing that he needed to _move_.

Crowley felt as though he had barely taken a step before he was at St. James’s Park, blinking in confusion as he stood by the lake absentmindedly crumbling a piece of bread between his fingers. _What the hell?_ He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. He tossed the remains of the bread into the gaggle of ducks that had gathered nearby – though for some reason, the black ducks were studiously ignoring him. _The fact that you are married only proves you're my best friend_ , Lou Reed continued to sing mercilessly, straight into Crowley’s ears.

 _Christ._ Crowley took his earbuds off with exaggerated care and tucked them back into the case in his pocket, his hands shaking, lest he throw them into the lake in his frustration. He took a deep breath and forced his mind toward practicalities, resolutely ignoring the way his chest kept constricting, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Aziraphale certainly seemed to have some memory of him – but how much? _Clearly not enough to wait for you this time,_ Crowley’s mind supplied viciously. He tamped the thought down quickly, but his traitor of a mind chose that precise moment to bring up the fact that Aziraphale remembered decidedly less than he did. No memories of art galleries or bars, he recalled suddenly, no memory of a night spent together in Crowley's bedroom - his throat threatened to close up entirely. He blinked hard and tossed the last of the bread at the ducks before striding down the path, breathing hard through his nose.

What should he do? Somehow, he had never even stopped to consider the possibility that Aziraphale might find someone else. A convulsive shudder went through him as he admonished himself for ever taking it for granted that they would always find their way back to each other – because clearly, that wasn’t the case.

Crowley never knew what to expect of Aziraphale. He was so different each time. After all, Crowley supposed, Aziraphale had lived an entire life without him at this point. He could hardly expect Aziraphale to hang around waiting for Crowley to show up. Why shouldn’t he be happy with someone else? Crowley wiped at his eyes angrily with the back of one hand and stuffed his hands into his pockets, walking faster, trying not to think of the moment that Aziraphale had looked up at that stranger and smiled at him, that small gentle smile that had always been reserved for Crowley in the past.

He growled in frustration and came to a stop, scrubbing his hand over his face. What was he going to _do?_ His phone buzzed in his pocket suddenly, a welcome distraction for once.

 _Mr. Crowley, our meeting with Bentley Motors is starting in ten minutes,_ the message from Newton said. _Just wanted to check in._ Three dots appeared on the screen, disappeared, appeared again. The poor sod was probably wondering how to ask if he was going to be able to make it, Crowley thought, staring into the distance, trying to think. This was their biggest pitch for the year. He couldn’t risk anything going wrong. 

Looking down at his phone, Crowley began to type. _Something urgent came up. Won’t be able to make it_. _You better get that account, Pulsifer, otherwise you’ll be out of a job tomorrow._ His thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before he added, _I’m counting on you._

Crowley sent the message before he could think twice about it. Newt could handle it perfectly well without him, as long as the nerves didn’t get to him first. Crowley sighed. Guess he was banking on getting pulled out of here, after all. A sudden moment of regret washed over him as he thought of the life he’d built for himself – sure, it wasn’t perfect, but he’d been pretty happy with how things had been going for him – decent job, decent flat, decent bunch of mates even. Not a bad life at all.

Would he still be happy with it, he wondered, knowing what he did now? Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow with the world spinning madly on, Aziraphale or no Aziraphale. A whole lifetime without Aziraphale – Crowley’s stomach lurched at the thought, but he pushed himself to compartmentalise as best as he could, because he needed to be ready for whatever was coming. _Doomsday prepper,_ he chided himself, shaking his head, and turned sharply to walk back to where he started, running through the possibilities in his head.

Scenario A: this one would keep going. Crowley would simply resume his life as though this were nothing but a blip on the radar. Everything, status quo. Everything different, and yet still exactly the same, as though he hadn’t just gotten on the Tube this afternoon and saw the one person he’d been waiting all his life to see staring at him through a train window. _Nope nope nope not going to think about that now._ He quickly forced his thoughts back on track.

Scenario B: this one would end, and they’d get pulled into the next ridiculous iteration of themselves yet again. Crowley caught himself suddenly. There was no plural _them_ to be spoken of here. There was only himself and his work and his plants, while Aziraphale had –

Crowley came to a full stop where he stood, suddenly gasping for breath, his thoughts spiralling, a steady throb building in his head. Aziraphale living in a cosy house in the suburbs, enjoying a home-cooked meal with his... Crowley couldn’t bring himself to even finish that thought. Did they have a room just for the overflowing shelves of books? Were there teacups lying forgotten on every flat surface, a batch of freshly baked muffins cooling on a rack in the kitchen, an old-fashioned gramophone that played Mozart and Schubert in the evenings?

A jogger came to a halt next to him. "You alright there, mate?"

"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Crowley managed as he staggered to the nearest bench and promptly collapsed onto it, the soft curves of his body melting into an indiscernible slouched shape against the wooden slats.

"If you're sure," they said, looking at Crowley uncertainly. For a moment, when Crowley looked up at them, he couldn’t see their face clearly. In fact, it was as though… they had no face at all. He shuddered with horror suddenly, clenching his eyes shut to clear them. When he opened his eyes, the jogger had vanished.

 _Fucking hell_. Hallucinating on top of everything. Crowley covered his face with his hands, trying to stem the full-on panic attack that was threatening to overcome him in the middle of the bloody park. He sat there for a long while, fighting against the awful choking sensation in his throat, the furious beating of his heart, trying to gain some semblance of control, his eyes wouldn't seem to stop watering, _for fuck's sake pull yourself together you idiot._

What right did Crowley even have? It wasn’t like Crowley had been celibate all his life – though he had to admit, it had been a while. Oh, he’d meet people who were interested, but somehow, he’d never been interested enough in anything beyond a few dates.

And even then, there had been no one, not for how many years now, not since Luc. Only Luc, and that was a _long_ time ago, and Luc had been… Crowley shivered and his hand came up to the short-cropped blonde hair on the back of his head, his fingers pulling hard, the pain grounding him in the moment. Aziraphale was nothing like Luc, Crowley reminded himself frantically. Nowhere even in the same _universe._ Aziraphale was kind and soft and fussy and so unfailingly good, but Luc, he was –

Crowley tugged his phone out of his pocket, his hands shaking and his breath rattling in his lungs, trying desperately to find something that would distract him, anything, anything at all, he'd settle for a damn kitten video at this point – when quite suddenly, a drop of rain landed on his screen.

The sky had quickly darkened without Crowley noticing. As he raised his eyes to the heavens, another large drop landed on his cheek, startling him as it slid down his face, leaving a line of moisture in its wake. Of course it was going to rain. Trust the universe to give him a good kick while he was down. He laughed aloud, an awful sound without a trace of mirth in it, wondering not for the first time what kind of transgressions he must have committed in the past to merit all these hideous half-lives he'd been living.

The rain was starting to come down thick and fast. Crowley stowed his phone away securely in the inner pocket of his jacket, but he couldn’t seem to will his legs to move. His trousers were already damp, moisture threatening to seep into his socks and into his favourite pair of snakeskin shoes. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking a deep breath. _Just get through this,_ he thought to himself drearily as he shivered, every inch of him aching with a chill that ran bone-deep, preparing to drag himself to the nearest establishment that would serve him a cup of coffee.

But before he knew it, the steady beating of raindrops on his face and clothes suddenly stopped. He blinked with surprise and looked up to see a large white umbrella held over his head, a pair of honey-brown eyes gazing at him with an expression he couldn’t name.

This was definitely a bad dream, and Crowley needed to snap out of it, wake up, _wake up_ –

“You’re getting soaked, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Soaked? Nah. Just a bit damp, s’fine.”

Not a dream, then. Crowley clenched his teeth, grateful suddenly for the downpour for concealing the worst of his humiliating breakdown, masking the tell-tale lines of salt on his face, the trembling of his shoulders. He looked away, trying to pull the last shreds of dignity he still had over himself.

“What’re you doing here? And in this weather no less?”

“Looking for you.”

Crowley started, his eyes widening, a word slipping out through his lips without his permission. Not once in all these lives could he remember Aziraphale ever seeking him out. “Why?”

Aziraphale sighed. “If you don’t mind, I would really rather have this conversation somewhere we’re not being subjected to the elements.”

For a second, Crowley considered staying right where he was out of sheer spite, but the wind was picking up and the rain quickly turning into a veritable deluge. He got to his feet, shoulders hunched under the shelter of the trim white umbrella, trying not to think about Aziraphale standing so close their shoulders were nearly touching as they stumbled to the nearest refuge they could find – the bandstand.

As Crowley stood there shivering, watching Aziraphale shake the umbrella free of water, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by the most terrible anguish. He didn’t want to be here. Anywhere but here at this bandstand that was pulling up agonising echoes in his mind. He swayed where he stood, his hand clutching at the railing for support.

“Are you –” Aziraphale stopped, suddenly wincing, looking at Crowley with a pained expression. “Did… did something happen to us here?”

Crowley didn’t answer. There was already too much to deal with without having to open Pandora’s fucking box of memories he didn’t understand. Getting caught in a thunderstorm with the one person he couldn’t bear to be alone with right now was just what he needed. Just another punch in the solar plexus from the universe. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Aziraphale in the eye. He addressed his question to the sunglasses poking out of Aziraphale’s coat pocket instead.

“Why’re you here, Aziraphale?”

“I told you. I was looking for you.”

Crowley sighed, running his fingers through the damp blonde curls now plastered limply against his forehead. “You know what I mean.”

“I – I wanted to apologise for earlier.” Aziraphale took a step closer to him. “It took me a while. I didn’t recognise you.”

Crowley lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Nothing new.”

Aziraphale flinched. “Crowley, I only meant – don’t you feel the same? I look at you now and… well, the way you look isn’t quite how I remember. Isn’t it strange?”

“Yeah.” Crowley finally looked up at Aziraphale, tried not to think about how something about the colour of his eyes repelled him. This was still Aziraphale, he reminded himself, even if he didn’t understand why anything about Aziraphale would repulse him. “I get it. Feels like that right now. Some of the other times too.”

“Other times?” Aziraphale’s brow creased. “What do you mean? This didn’t happen last time.”

“What?”

“Remember? I went to watch you at a show…” Aziraphale said slowly, as though lost in thought. “We got fish and chips afterwards. Then we went to your flat.” His face flushed suddenly, pink staining his cheeks. “You do remember that, don’t you?”

“Yeah…” Crowley was struggling to understand. “Hang on. Is that all?”

“What do you mean, is that all? Was there anything else?”

 _Shit._ There it was, then, the confirmation he’d been looking for. Aziraphale only remembered the last life they had met, but not anything earlier than that.

Crowley forced himself to ignore this new revelation, as though the universe hadn’t just decided to deal him yet another crushing blow straight to the chest. _One at a time,_ he thought, even as a pit of simmering fury grew in his stomach.

“I do have little flashes of other things that don’t really make sense,” Aziraphale added. “I told you about that last time, I think.”

Crowley pondered this for a moment. Aziraphale _had_ mentioned that before, and Crowley had those odd flashes of memory too, vague and nebulous and only half-formed, as though his mind could only begin forming the shape of the thought but couldn’t quite complete it.

“Crowley?”

“Er, yeah…” Crowley grasped for something to say. “I – I don’t remember your eyes being that colour. Or your hair.”

The deep furrow between Aziraphale’s eyebrows remained, but he nodded slowly. “How strange that is.”

“Guess whoever’s running the show decided that how we look should change too. You know, just to keep us on our toes.” Crowley snorted.

“Hm.” There was a thoughtful look on Aziraphale’s face. “Do you know what that made me think of?”

“What?”

“I heard someone talking about it just yesterday. Apparently, some people believe that the face that you wear in this life is the face of the person you loved in the previous life. I suppose they must believe in reincarnation, and that sort of thing.”

Crowley really did laugh at that. “That is ridiculous _,_ because then that would mean that –”

He stopped abruptly, his brain finally catching up with his mouth. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably long as Crowley tried to get his voice to work, to make some inane joke for the moment to pass, if only his throat would stop _burning._

“Oh, Crowley, I only meant –”

“Don’t _patronise_ me, Aziraphale,” Crowley spat, the anger boiling over at last. “I know what you meant.”

Aziraphale drew back as though he had been burned, and Crowley was immediately furious at himself for never getting it right, always driving Aziraphale away, _no wonder he’s gone and forgotten about you_ , _you fucking idiot –_

“Crowley, please. Will you let me explain?”

A small broken sound escaped Crowley’s throat. “There’s nothing for you to explain. Really. I don’t… I don’t blame you, alright?” He wanted to fling himself into the torrent of rain, feel the force of it beating down on him, let it wash all of this away. The howl that was threatening at any moment to break from his chest, the grief that was clawing its way out of his throat, despair and anguish and fury and – and _love_ all tearing at him from inside until there was nothing of him left but an empty shell.

“I thought – my dear, last time, you were so happy,” Aziraphale said, his voice barely audible over the din of the storm. “I saw you. You were thriving where you were. Weren’t you happy then?”

Crowley didn’t answer.

“I didn’t want to… You shouldn’t have to give anything up, Crowley. Not like last time. I thought maybe if – if I –”

“Stop.” Crowley’s voice was a harsh sound, scraping tight against the ugly thing stuck in his throat. He cursed himself internally for always asking precisely the wrong questions, never being content, taking everything apart until there was no meaning left. “Aziraphale. You know whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. You _knew_ that. I was on my fucking _knees._ ”

Aziraphale’s fingers were worrying at the buttons of his waistcoat, and he seemed to be struggling to speak.

“Look. Just forget it. You – you don’t owe me any explanations,” Crowley finished, his voice dropping suddenly.

“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale said desperately. Crowley saw him out of the corner of his eye taking another step closer, his hand outstretched, reaching for him. “I was just – I thought this would be _best_ –”

Crowley shook his head. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me, Aziraphale.” He finally glanced up and immediately regretted it. The trembling of Aziraphale’s bottom lip sent a searing wave of misery through him. He tore his eyes away from Aziraphale. “But you know what? You do get to decide what’s best for _you_. So if you think that this – _he –_ is what’s best for you _…_ well, then.” He shrugged, a blatantly transparent attempt at feigning indifference.

The rain was slowing down at last. Just a few more minutes of this agonising farce of a conversation to endure. Crowley clenched his jaw hard and reminded himself to breathe, trying to slow down the drumbeat of the muscle that passed for a heart against his ribs.

There was a light touch on his shoulder, and he flinched, pulling away. He couldn’t bear to be touched, not now – if Aziraphale touched him again, he would break into a thousand pieces, right there in the bandstand. _Again._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said plaintively. He was so close to Crowley now, his hand hovering a few inches from his arm. “Please. You know, you _must_ know, that I –”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley interrupted, his voice rasping. “I don’t want to hear it.” _I can’t. Not now. Not when I have to think about you going home after this and getting into bed with someone else. Does he stock up on Châteauneuf-du-Pape for you on special occasions? Has he ever taken you to the Ritz just to see you enjoy yourself? Does he know you hate_ The Sound of Music?

What he says instead is, “Just tell me this, angel. Are you happy?” He can no longer help the small break in his voice, wished the endearment hadn’t slipped off his tongue so easily.

“I… I am. But Crowley –”

“Good.” That was enough. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to say anything else about it. A long exhale left his lips. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

“How could I not?” Aziraphale said softly.

“Look, it’s just… I don’t bloody know what’s going to happen now, alright? Will we stay in this one? Are we on the clock now? Christ.” Crowley struggled to string his thoughts into something resembling coherence, still staring resolutely at his shoes. “If we don’t get to stay in this one, then…” His throat worked hard, trying to get the awful words out. “I’m sorry.” _Sorry for interrupting your quiet life. Sorry I ever looked up from my phone while I was on the goddamn train. Sorry I was stupid enough to think that it was me you were waiting for._

“Crowley, please.” A warm hand closed tightly around his wrist, not allowing him to pull away. He looked up to see Aziraphale’s face blotchy and wet, and it broke Crowley’s heart. “I should be the one apologising to you.”

Crowley dug awkwardly into his coat pocket and found a black handkerchief, still considerably dry despite the rain, and handed it to Aziraphale. “Don’t cry, angel. You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” he said gruffly, and to his surprise, he meant it. “Just the way it is, isn’t it?”

He didn’t know if he was more relieved or disappointed when Aziraphale let go of his hand to take the proffered handkerchief, wiping his face delicately with it. The rain was finally starting to clear up, the torrent giving way to a quiet drizzle.

“What do we do now?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Dunno.” Crowley drew a painful breath. “Go home. Wait.”

Aziraphale nodded hesitantly. “And you?”

“Guess I’ll… head off then.” Crowley jerked his head towards the park. “Rain’s letting up.”

“Wait.” Aziraphale reached for his hand again, lacing their fingers together. His touch felt like it was burning Crowley from the inside out. Too much. Not enough. “Will you look at me? Please.”

With what effort Crowley could muster, he gathered up what was left of his self-control to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. The strange amber eyes were still shining with tears, the edges reddened and puffy from crying. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand tighten around his own.

“I – In the next one, Crowley…”

This was a terrible idea, but Crowley couldn’t pull his hand away, half-starved as he was for Aziraphale’s touch, his thumb running gently over Crowley’s. He shook his head. “Don’t make promises.” _You might not be able to keep them._

Aziraphale frowned, as though he heard the words that had gone unsaid. “O ye of little faith.”

Crowley just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Fine. I admit I walked right into that one.”

A small smile broke on Crowley’s face unexpectedly, despite himself. Even now, he was still hopelessly, ridiculously besotted, and he hated himself for it. “Tell you what. How about we try that ridiculous theory you heard yesterday, hm?” His eyes searched Aziraphale’s face, committing it to memory – the honey-brown eyes that had given him such a shock, the sharp cheekbones, the severe line of his jaw. Would he be wearing this face in the next one? Would there even _be_ a next time? Fear settled like a heavy stone into his stomach.

“Any port in a storm, I suppose,” Aziraphale murmured, the corners of his lips turning up as he studied Crowley’s face intently. He realised belatedly what Aziraphale was doing, studying Crowley’s features... but wouldn’t Aziraphale look like – _stop stop stop don’t even think about it._ Crowley took a long shuddering inhale and pulled his hand free from Aziraphale’s grasp.

“I should go.”

Aziraphale looked lost for a moment, as though he hadn’t been expecting it. “Where are you going?”

Crowley gazed at him, puzzled. “Back to my flat?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. How are you getting there?”

“Back on the Tube, I guess. With this weather, doubt I can flag a taxi down. You?”

“I’m just going to walk. I live… quite nearby.”

“Oh.” Crowley forced an approximation of a smile back on his face. “Well. I would offer you a ride, but my car’s at the shop.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale murmured. “I was really just wondering.”

“Alright, then.” Crowley wavered for a moment. “In case it doesn’t… you know, start over…”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

Crowley shrugged. _Because we didn’t end up together in this one? Because you deserve to have a good life, and there’s absolutely no reason why you can’t have one without me? Fuck knows what’s going on._

“Just saying, in case it doesn’t.” Crowley took a deep breath. “I guess, you know. Have a good one.”

Aziraphale nodded and tried to smile. “And you, my dear. Mind how you go.”

“Always. Careful, that’s my middle name.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t sound quite right,” Aziraphale said dryly. “I still don’t know what the J stands for, by the way.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t remember.”

“You’ve never told me. I’m not an _idiot,_ Crowley.”

The look of exasperation Aziraphale threw his way was so familiar that Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. He took a final look at Aziraphale, tried to memorise the exact shade of his red hair, the lines of his spare body. Tried to picture himself inhabiting that body and grimaced internally. It was fine when it was Aziraphale. But if it had been anyone else, he certainly wouldn’t have taken a second look.

He looked one last time and stared at Aziraphale in shock – was it just Crowley, or were Aziraphale’s eyes suddenly blue for just a split second? Crowley blinked in confusion and the mirage vanished - and there they were again, those brown eyes that were so light they were a nearly unpleasant shade of yellow. _What the hell?_ He shook his head, bewildered. He was exhausted, he told himself firmly, that’s all it was. He needed to go home and sleep for maybe the next decade or two.

"See you, then." Crowley's voice cracked right down the middle.

“Wait. Please don’t go yet.”

The despair in Aziraphale’s voice nearly tore Crowley apart. He had to go now while he still had a shred of decency left. He shook his head and turned away, too worn out for a proper goodbye, and strode away from the bandstand, away from Aziraphale. Just like last time. Crowley hoped whoever was watching them was at least having a right good laugh at his expense.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale called out to him one last time, his voice thin and despondent.

For a moment, Crowley hesitated. Thought of Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt, looking back at the burning carnage of what was left of her old life. _Don’t look back_. Orpheus, taking one fatal glance that cost him the love of his life forever. Crowley gritted his teeth and kept walking. _There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one._

He had no idea what happened after that – one moment, he was walking through the park. The next, he was standing in front of the door to his flat, looking around uncertainly. How did he get here? He couldn't remember at all.

Truthfully, Crowley couldn’t bring himself to care much. He could barely think – he ached so much, he didn’t know how he was still on his feet. He shivered violently as he toed off his sodden shoes in the foyer and dropped his coat on the ground, soaked as it was, no longer caring even as he heard the muted thud of his phone in the pocket of the coat hitting the floor.

A trail of his clothes followed him to his bedroom, pulled off carelessly and dropped from his numb fingers. He crawled under the blankets and buried his face in the pillows, trembling with cold, tears forcing their way through his closed eyes for a long time, the pillow growing damp beneath his cheek as he waited for the darkness to pull him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) and to ~anonymous~ for beta-ing this angsty bandstand chapter! Also, much love to @MaloneCrowley and @nightmovescas over on Twitter for happily entertaining my many questions about St. James's Park and the Tube. 
> 
> Next week's update will be happier. Hang in there. There is a Kazuo Ishiguro reference in this chapter because I needed to be sad to write this, and now here we are. 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	7. In Retrospect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Travelling alone, are you?” Crowley asked, as casually as he could manage.
> 
> “Yes.” Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he turned to look Crowley in the eye. “I've always travelled alone.”
> 
> "Oh." Crowley's heart was stuttering an uneven rhythm, the breath knocked clean out of him at the tacit admission. He heard Aziraphale’s words for what they meant. _I made you a promise, and I have kept it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW implied accident. In case you might want to avoid reading about it, please check the end notes for a short summary of events happening at the end of this chapter.

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

“Mr. Crowley? Mr. Crowley, are you alright?”

Crowley blinked and the harried ground staff member who was assisting him at the check-in counter came into focus, gazing at him with a concerned look on her face.

“Er, yeah. Sorry,” Crowley muttered, reaching for his passport and ticket. “So no flight delays or anything?”

“No, everything should be on time for your flight today.” She smiled at him politely. “Have a pleasant trip.”

Crowley nodded his thanks and turned away, pulling his carry-on luggage along beside him. He had overestimated London traffic and arrived three hours too early for his flight, but that was par for the course. Business class at least afforded him a place in the airline lounge, where the staff already knew to expect him at least once a month. He sighed, shifting his coat over his arm. The strain of so much travel the past few months was starting to take its toll on him – he was developing a Pavlovian reaction to the sight of the airport gates.

It seemed as though it took him only a moment to get from the check-in counter to the entrance of the business lounge – had he gotten lost in his head again? He blinked in confusion but recovered himself quickly enough and entered the lounge, nodding to the staff in greeting as he headed to his usual spot at the bar. In his opinion, it was the best seat in the lounge: alcohol and a conveniently placed socket nearby so he could have a drink and work at the same time.

“Bit early in the day, don’t you think?”

Crowley looked up in surprise. His face relaxed into a smile when he saw Anathema behind the bar, a smirk on her lips. “Didn’t know you had a shift today.”

“I wasn’t. But Newt told me you were flying out, so I did a bit of magic with my schedule.” She winked at Crowley and wiggled her fingers as though casting a spell. He took his sunglasses off and laid them on the table so that she could see him rolling his eyes.

Anathema looked up furtively, checking to see if anyone was watching them before she stuck her tongue out at Crowley. “Whatever. You missed me, and you know it.”

“I plead the fifth, or whatever it is you Americans say.”

She laughed. “Stop it. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Gimme a break, Anathema,” Crowley said in his best imitation of an American accent, which was terrible. Anathema mimed gagging behind the counter, and he laughed. “Come on. Merlot, or cabernet sauvignon, or whatever you’ve got that’s stronger. If you’re here, I’m not going to get any work done, so I might as well.”

Anathema glared at him. “Anthony, it is half past two in the _bloody_ afternoon,” she said, mocking his drawl.

Crowley grimaced. “Don’t. I can’t believe you’ve lived here for ages and still can’t do a passable imitation.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to offend the waitstaff?” Anathema sighed theatrically as she pulled out a bottle of bourbon with a flourish from under the bar.

Crowley grinned. “I knew I liked you.”

“I’m relieved to know it wasn’t just my good looks.”

“Cheeky for a bartender, aren’t you?”

“Who says I’m just a bartender?” She raised her eyebrows at him. “How do you feel about a sneaky tarot card reading today?”

“Must you really?” Crowley groaned as Anathema gave him a look, her hands moving deftly. A sugar cube with a splash of bitters and club soda. She crushed the sugar into the bottom of the glass before adding an ice cube and a generous portion of bourbon.

“Don’t pretend they haven’t been helpful to you, Crowley.”

“Fine.” Crowley sighed as Anathema carefully garnished his old-fashioned with a sliver of orange peel and placed it in front of him on a silver coaster. “I don’t think I’ve got a choice anyway.”

“You’re lucky there aren’t many people around yet, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do a reading for you at all.”

“Honestly, how do you even sneak an entire deck of tarot cards into your workplace?”

She cracked a grin at him and started shuffling the cards under the bar, just out of Crowley’s sight. “Have you considered that this is specifically for your benefit?”

“All I hear you saying is that I’m _special.”_

Anathema looked up in exasperation, though she was laughing. Crowley could hear her gathering the cards together, tapping the deck lightly. “Okay, are you ready? Have you got any specific questions for me today?”

“You know I never do.” Crowley leaned forward, interested despite himself. “What’ve you got?”

“Let’s see…” She pulled out a card and laid it in front of Crowley.

“The Tower,” Crowley read with some difficulty.

“What was the first thing you noticed about it?”

Crowley shrugged. “The card’s upside down?

“Okay.” Anathema took a deep breath. “The Tower represents ground-breaking change. It can mean a lot of things, but since the first thing you noticed is that it’s upside down, this could mean that you’re about to experience a change in the form of a major disruption. And it’ll be a change in something that you consider to be foundational.”

“Change,” Crowley groaned. “And I can even have a major disruption with it, as a treat.”

“Oh, stop whining. It’s not a bad thing.” Anathema cocked her head for a moment, thinking. “Let me put it this way. So there’s a crisis of some sort coming your way. Maybe you’ve already noticed things breaking down around you, signs of that impending crisis that you’re ignoring.”

Crowley made a spluttering noise. “How is that supposed to sound _not bad?”_

“Let me finish!” Anathema glared at him. “Okay, so this crisis, these things breaking down, they’re supposed to happen. You have to let them happen because once those things are gone, there will be space for something new.”

“So you’re telling me I have to sit here and suffer as I wait for what’s coming for me.”

“Sort of, yeah. You could try and put it off, but it will just delay the inevitable.” Anathema said calmly. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. It’s probably going to suck, actually. I’m saying it’s going to be worth it in the end.”

Crowley collapsed further into his chair, just short of actually sliding completely out of it. “I am absolutely looking forward to all the wonders the future holds in store for me.”

“You should.” Anathema smirked at him. “It’ll be great.”

“Ana,” Crowley said softly. She looked up at him, an eyebrow raised at the sudden shift in tone. He only ever called her that when he was feeling particularly serious about something. “I’ve got something to ask you, and don’t think about it too hard. Just answer.”

“You’re making it sound so ominous. What is it?”

“You ever feel like you’re having… déjà vu, or whatever it’s called?” Crowley’s eyes were fixed on the remnants of his old-fashioned, but he could feel Anathema’s eyes on him, assessing him carefully.

“I want to say yes, but first I want to know why you’re asking.”

Crowley sighed. “Obviously, because I feel that way all the time.”

“Well… I guess I do.” Anathema thought hard for a moment. “With you in particular, now that I think about it. Like I get weird flashes of…” Her face shifted suddenly to something more guarded. “You’re not having a go at me, are you?”

“I’m not. Not this time, at least.” He grinned, but his heart was suddenly beating faster. “Ana, are you saying you do get this – I dunno, this weird feeling sometimes?”

“Weird how?”

“Like… I can’t explain it.” Crowley threw his hands up in frustration. “Like something isn’t quite right. Like this isn’t where we’re meant to _be.”_

“I mean, doesn’t everyone?” Anathema made to shrug, but she had a curious expression on her face.

“You just said you got it around me in particular…” Crowley said slowly. There was a slow ache of pain building at his temple. He rubbed at it impatiently. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t start thinking you’re anything special,” she said, her lips curling up into a forced sort of smile. “You’re cute, but not that cute.”

“Oh, shut it, you’re just –”

“Someone’s coming this way,” Anathema hissed. She whipped the tarot card off the counter and shoved it back under the bar.

Crowley quickly busied himself on his laptop, ignoring the sound of a bag placed gently on the floor, the scrape of the bar stool next to him.

“Hello, Crowley.”

Crowley very nearly fell out of his seat in his surprise to see a man with light blonde hair gazing at him with an odd look in his blue eyes. Like recognition, like – a flash of pain went through Crowley's head.

“Erm, hi.” Crowley blinked, his heart suddenly racing. He felt as though he were in a daze, pieces falling into place in his head more quickly than he could coherently think.

“It's me.” The man gave him a small hesitant smile, and it was like being punched, the shock giving way abruptly to hurt, a healing wound he hadn't known was there suddenly tearing itself wide open in Crowley's chest. He was eternally grateful that Anathema chose that exact moment to greet their new guest and hand him the bar menu, otherwise Crowley might have done something humiliating – fall into his arms, perhaps, or burst into tears, or something equally mortifying.

It gave Crowley a moment to compose himself. He shut his stinging eyes for a moment to sift through the memories that had flooded into his mind. It was difficult every time, he suddenly realised, but even worse now that everything was coated with a thick layer of something that felt like betrayal. He quickly tipped the last of his old-fashioned into his mouth, focused on the burn going down his throat, sugar crystals on his tongue, only half-listening to Anathema listing down the options of red wine available. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anathema turn away to rummage through the cabinets behind her.

“I'm sorry it took me a while. There were some problems with my ticket, and I had to make new arrangements with the airline.”

Crowley couldn't seem to make his mouth form anything coherent – a thoroughly embarrassing strangled noise left his throat instead. He could feel the tips of his ears burning.

Anathema came back with a glass of red wine and Crowley seized the distraction gratefully. “Another old-fashioned?”

Whatever expression Crowley was making made Anathema’s eyebrows draw together in response. “Just a minute,” she said, eyeing him closely, tacking a smile on at the end as an afterthought before she turned away again.

“So… you’re going somewhere, then?”

“Going somewhere – what else am I doing at an airport, shopping for groceries?” Crowley said sharply to his laptop’s keyboard, suddenly irritated.

“Quite right,” Aziraphale murmured beside him, his fingers worrying at the stem of the wine glass, and a wave of guilt swept through Crowley immediately. _Not even five minutes in and you're already fucking this one up, you complete arse._

He cleared his throat. Tried again. “Sorry. Er. You caught me by surprise there.” He still couldn't bring himself to look Aziraphale in the eye.

“Perfectly understandable.” Crowley noticed that Aziraphale's fingers relaxed around the glass, and he sighed with relief inwardly. “I saw you earlier, you see. You were just leaving the check-in counter. I called to you, but… I don't think you heard me?”

“What?” Crowley recalled the odd moment where he was suddenly standing in front of the entrance to the lounge, and how he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten there. “I – I must have been distracted. Didn't hear a thing.”

“I surmised as much,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I'm relieved we're at least taking the same airline. Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to find you here.”

“Mm. Where are you headed?”

“I have to be at Edinburgh by this evening. The original flight I booked was supposed to be an hour ago, but I believe there was some sort of confusion over the schedules and I ended up getting booked into a later flight.” Aziraphale paused for a moment, as though trying to find the words for what he wanted to say. “It seems rather as though things fell into place.”

Anathema finally returned with another old-fashioned and placed it carefully on a coaster in front of Crowley. The questioning look on her face clearly telegraphed her concern. _You alright?_ Crowley nodded minutely and the furrow in her brow relaxed somewhat. Her mouth quirked in acknowledgment before she moved away.

“Where are you headed, my dear?”

Crowley winced at the endearment, caught off-guard by how much it stung.

“Oh. My apologies,” Aziraphale murmured, his body shifting slightly away. “I – I wasn't thinking. That was too...”

“S'alright,” Crowley muttered, staring emptily at his old-fashioned and wondering for a moment if he could possibly drown himself in it. “Got a meeting in Los Angeles, but my flight isn't for another couple of hours.”

“I see. Well, if you're busy with work, I'd rather not interrupt you.”

“No,” Crowley said a little too quickly as he snapped his laptop shut and moved it to the side. “I'm not working now.”

He forced himself to look at Aziraphale, who was gazing at him with that odd expression still in his eyes. To his surprise, Aziraphale lifted his wine glass and held it out tentatively toward Crowley.

 _Salutaria_ , the echo of a familiar voice whispered in Crowley's head, accompanied by another twinge of pain. He did his best to ignore it, picking up his old-fashioned and clinking it gently against the wine glass before taking a sip. Aziraphale took his time just like he always did, inhaling the scent of the wine and making appreciative noises before taking a sip.

“Mm, that is delicious.”

“It's airport lounge wine. Can't be anything spectacular.”

“Not everything has to be expensive to taste good,” Aziraphale protested.

“And yet I'd be willing to wager the staff at the Ritz knows you by name.” Crowley cocked an eyebrow at Aziraphale as a light flush spread across his face.

“You fiend,” Aziraphale murmured, taking another sip of wine. “That proves nothing at all.”

“Doesn't it?”

“You know perfectly well that it doesn't.”

Crowley didn't say anything. He only raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, just drink your old-fashioned, please.”

A smile broke through Crowley's lips. He missed Aziraphale so much every inch of him ached – it was like having a phantom limb that he never became properly aware of, only knowing that there was _something missing_ and never knowing quite what it was, not until the moment they saw each other again. He surreptitiously glanced at Aziraphale's hand as it settled between them on the bar, realising that he wore only the winged signet ring, and no other. Crowley's heart leapt into his throat.

“Travelling alone, are you?” Crowley asked, as casually as he could manage.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he turned to look Crowley in the eye. “I've always travelled alone.”

"Oh." Crowley's heart was stuttering an uneven rhythm, the breath knocked clean out of him at the tacit admission. He heard Aziraphale’s words for what they meant. _I made you a promise, and I have kept it._

Aziraphale's hand made a small uncertain movement between them, before it turned over on the counter, palm up, the golden signet ring glinting in the light. Crowley looked up at Aziraphale – he had that tentative smile on his face again, and Crowley felt suddenly broken open as he reached for Aziraphale's hand, grasping it tightly. _We always have so little time_ , he thought distantly. _Why waste it thinking about something that had happened so long ago?_

“I missed you terribly all this time, you know,” Aziraphale said softly, his thumb stroking over Crowley's knuckles gently, lingering over the valleys in between. “Even though I only properly realised it today.”

The old ache was still making itself felt, but the warmth of Aziraphale's touch and his words were like a soothing balm, and Crowley laughed wetly at the familiar blinding smile that spread across Aziraphale's face.

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” Crowley couldn't keep the soppy grin off his face, and he realised belatedly that he'd had his sunglasses off since Aziraphale arrived but couldn't bring himself to be all that embarrassed about it now. Somehow, when it was Aziraphale, he didn’t mind being seen. “Hi, angel.”

“Hello, my dear.” Aziraphale's hand squeezed his softly. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Fine. Nothing interesting, really. What have you been doing?”

As Aziraphale started talking, his face animated in that expressive way of his, Crowley found himself staring at Aziraphale, feeling rather ridiculous at how light he suddenly felt. As though he'd lived all his life just to get to this point, sitting at an airport bar with Aziraphale holding his hand. He could almost pretend they were traveling together if he tried hard enough. As though the boarding passes they carried in their pockets weren't stamped with entirely different destinations and times. As though this wouldn't all be over in a matter of hours.

“Is something the matter, Crowley?”

Crowley blinked to see Aziraphale watching him, looking rather puzzled.

“Yeah, I'm… fine,” Crowley said slowly as Anathema came by to take their empty glasses. He couldn’t remember drinking his second old-fashioned at all. Anathema winked at him as she went, and he glared at her in response, but he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that there was something strange happening. As though things weren’t strange enough. He bit his lip, wondering if he should say something to Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale was already chivvying Crowley out of his seat – and in the next instant, they were sitting in a waiting area crowded with bored passengers. There was a boarding gate marked “Flight BA1458 to Edinburgh” standing a few metres away. Crowley looked around in confusion. _What the hell?_

Tugging the boarding pass out of Aziraphale's hand, Crowley read through the flight details quickly. Aziraphale’s flight was at 18:55. He looked at his watch – it was 17:45.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, trying to think through his bewilderment as he handed the boarding pass back to Aziraphale. “Remind me why you're still getting on this flight?”

“I didn't realise I hadn't mentioned it.” Aziraphale took his hand, looking distressed. “You see, my closest friend Tracy, her husband's been in an accident. She asked me to come.”

“Oh,” Crowley said faintly.

“I know… I know things will start over again soon,” Aziraphale whispered. “And if it were anything but this, I wouldn't – but I can't, Crowley, she needs me. I can't let her be there alone.”

“No, no.” Crowley shook his head and squeezed Aziraphale's hand, trying to sound reassuring. “Of course, angel. I wouldn't ask you to – I’d never… I just wanted to know,” he ended lamely. He looked at his watch again. What with boarding time and everything, they had forty-five minutes at most. _Forty-five minutes._ Crowley suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, his hand tightening around Crowley's, touch making up for the gaps in speech, the half-sentences that went unfinished. “I'm so sorry – I didn't want to ask, and I hope it isn’t too late… Of course, I didn't want to impose, but would you –”

“Yes,” Crowley said immediately. “Yes. I'm coming with you. Not even a question.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, already scanning through his flight options as Aziraphale approached the ground crew to ask if there were any seats still available on the flight.

Before long, Crowley clenched his teeth, disappointment bubbling hot in his stomach. The next flight to Edinburgh out of Heathrow wouldn't be for another five hours, and estimated travel time was an hour and a half. _Too long_. He looked up as Aziraphale sat down beside him, his dejected posture already telling Crowley what he needed to know. His heart sank.

“Listen, angel. How about I take a bus and meet you there?”

“Crowley, it's a ten-hour bus ride.”

“Well... what if I threw more money at them? Maybe they'll let me on this flight.” Crowley was grasping at straws and he knew it, but _fuck, forty-five minutes?_ He looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes now, and the clock was ticking maddeningly on. “Shit. Angel, what should I do? There aren't any other flights. Shit shit shit shit _shit_.”

“Crowley, I'm so sorry.” Aziraphale's fingers brushed over the line of his jaw, his eyes suddenly overbright. “I don't think there's anything we can do.”

Crowley slumped back against the chair, all traces of momentary excitement completely gone. _Thirty-four minutes,_ his watch proclaimed. He looked at Aziraphale, whose face had grown pale, and it pained him to see Aziraphale distressed over this.

He tried to smile. “I mean it, angel. It’s alright.” And it was, really. “It matters to you, so… it matters to me.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale suddenly tugged him closer, until they were pressed together from shoulder to hip, their knees touching. Crowley was forced to sit up straight for once – but all discomfort from the unfamiliar upright posture were quickly dispelled as Aziraphale laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Crowley pressed his lips to the softness of Aziraphale’s hair, a lump growing in his throat. _Thirty-three minutes._ He reached for Aziraphale’s hand and tucked it snugly into the crook of his arm.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“If circumstances permit… what do you think you’d like to do next time we see each other?”

Crowley hummed. “Feels like we’re tempting fate with that, but sure. Sky’s the limit. Did you have any ideas?”

“I don’t know, really. Maybe you could drive us somewhere. We could go on a proper trip.”

“Yeah, why not?” Crowley leaned his cheek down against Aziraphale’s head. “We can go for a picnic. You’d like that.”

“I would, actually,” Aziraphale agreed. “Though I imagine I wouldn’t be… quite so particular.”

“What do you mean?”

Aziraphale shifted slightly, his hand tightening around Crowley’s arm. “Well, I don’t think I would mind very much where we go or what we do.”

 _As long as we’re together,_ Crowley heard the words as clearly as though they had been spoken, felt them in the shuddering breath Aziraphale took.

“Crowley.”

“Yeah, angel?”

“I’m sorry. About everything that happened last time. You were right, you know.”

Crowley snorted. “Can I get that in writing?”

Aziraphale laughed, though there was an audible hitch in his throat. “You stubborn thing. I meant it.”

“I know.” Crowley laid his hand over the warmth of Aziraphale’s hand on his arm. “Look, we just do the best we can with the circumstances we’re in, right? S’not like we choose where we end up, it’s different every time.”

“Every time? What do you mean?” Aziraphale raised his head to gaze at Crowley with consternation.

 _Shit._ Crowley didn’t mean for that to slip out – he’d already forgotten Aziraphale didn’t remember. “Oh, erm. Misspoke, that’s all.”

Aziraphale was still looking at him suspiciously. “Anyway,” Crowley plunged on hurriedly, “All I meant is that it happened, and we can’t do anything about it now. So we’ll just let it go, alright?”

“Crowley, you can’t just shrug that off,” Aziraphale sighed, his head dropping back down onto Crowley’s shoulder.

“Watch me.” Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, waited until Aziraphale lifted his eyes to meet his gaze. “You couldn’t have known, Aziraphale. Neither of us did. Not until we saw each other.”

“I still want to apologise for it. I – I don’t know how to explain it, really. But it was as though there was a part of me that knew all along. I knew what I was giving up. But I did it anyway, because it was what I thought was the best thing to do.” Aziraphale shifted closer, and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s chest press snugly against his shoulder. “I did remember you, in a way. Even if I didn’t know it at the time.” His voice had trailed into a low murmur, aching with regret. “I’m sorry, Crowley.”

“But you told me you were happy then, weren’t you?” Crowley blinked hard and took a deep breath as surreptitiously as he could manage. “That’s all I wanted.”

“All the same, Crowley, I should have known better than that. If I could do it over – if we could do it again…”

“We’re here now, aren’t we?” Crowley tried to swallow around the dryness of his throat. Twenty-six minutes wasn’t enough to tell Aziraphale all the things they had already lived through. _I’ll tell you next time,_ Crowley promised silently. _Everything I can remember. I’ll tell you all of it, angel, all the lives we’ve lived, I swear I will, but not now._

“Well… I can at the very least assure you it won’t happen again,” Aziraphale said softly into his shoulder.

Crowley couldn’t help it – his breath came in a huff of laughter, feeling lightheaded with the emotions that were swirling through him all at once, but more than anything from the sheer joy of having Aziraphale so close, of finally being certain that they would find each other and be together again no matter where they ended up next. _Our side._ “I sure hope so, angel.”

They sat for some time in companionable silence, occasionally remarking on the other passengers, bickering comfortably about this and that. Crowley glanced at his watch. Seventeen minutes. Why the hell were the seconds going by so fast? For one wild moment, he wished more than anything that he could stop time in this place of in-betweens, neither here nor there, not looking forward, not looking back. Just firmly ensconced in the present, with Aziraphale’s warmth pressed against him, his head resting comfortably on Crowley’s shoulder.

But he couldn’t, and there were places they needed to be, and _fuck_ they needed to figure out how to fix this. He stretched his hand out for Aziraphale’s boarding pass and examined it carefully.

“Alright, angel. Today is October 21, 2019.”

“What about it?”

“You think there’s any way we’re gonna remember that?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “You _said_ we were tempting fate.”

“Can’t hurt to be prepared, right? We could go on that drive like you wanted.” Crowley thought for a second. “Where do you think we should meet? You know, just in case.”

“What about the Ritz?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe a table for two will miraculously become free.” Crowley snickered as Aziraphale lifted his head to glare at him. “Make a reservation under your name, angel. I’ll find you there.”

For a moment, Crowley shut his eyes and buried his nose against the soft blonde hair, inhaling deeply – the scent of his shampoo, a light floral with a hint of something sweet, the musky warm undertone that lay beneath that was all Aziraphale. When he opened his eyes, the waiting area had suddenly emptied. There were only a few people lining up at the counter now, coats slung over their arms, boarding passes in hand.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “I think I need to go.”

They were the only people left in the waiting area. Crowley glanced down at his watch in a panic. One minute.

“Aziraphale.” Panic filled Crowley suddenly – _why did he keep losing time?_

“I know, my dear. I know.” Aziraphale allowed Crowley to clutch at him like a drowning man and held him tightly, his face buried against Crowley’s shoulder. “I’ll see you again, though. October 21, 2019. Don’t forget, Crowley.”

“You bastard, how dare you talk to me about forgetting?” Crowley pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s, their noses just touching. “Got to set a time too, angel. How does 3 o’clock sound?”

“I’ve got to check my diary first, but I think I could clear my schedule for you.” Aziraphale’s laugh sounded more like a sob, his breath caught in his throat. “Crowley, I –”

Before he could finish, Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s, a kiss no less sweet for its hesitancy – they would have time to relearn the rhythms of each other perhaps one day, but there was no time left for them now.

“Angel, you should go.” _Before I do something embarrassing. Before I beg you to stay. Because I know you need to do this, and I would never keep you from it. Say goodbye now, while I can still let you go._

Aziraphale’s lip was trembling, the lines around the corners of his eyes tight. “Yes. Y-you’re right.” He made no move to stand, his hand still tight around Crowley’s arm.

“Think of Tracy,” Crowley murmured, his fingers tracing over Aziraphale’s hand. “She needs you, doesn’t she? You said so yourself.”

“She does,” Aziraphale said softly. He took a long breath, exhaled shakily. Crowley had always scoffed at people weeping at airports in the past, and here they were now. The sheer irony of it. _For fuck’s sake._

“Come on, angel.” Crowley summoned the last of his willpower to force himself to his feet. He bent over to brush his thumb against Aziraphale’s cheek to wipe away the wetness there. “You don’t want to hold up your flight.”

Aziraphale got to his feet unsteadily, his hand grasping the handle of his old-fashioned carpetbag. He gave Crowley a watery smile. “Don’t get into too much trouble without me, you wily old thing.”

“I won’t,” Crowley promised. “How can I? No fun if you aren’t there.” He tried to smile at Aziraphale. “It can wait until next time.” _I can wait until next time. Just like I always have. Just like I always will._

Simultaneously, they both walked forward and wrapped their arms tightly around each other one last time. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s uneven breathing, the soft shiver of his body.

_Three, two, one._

“Time to go,” Crowley whispered. He tried not to let the salt run down his cheeks as he pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s forehead.

Aziraphale’s gaze lifted to meet Crowley’s, his eyes a storm of blue and grey and green – shifting rapidly as a storm, shining bright as the sun. “Crowley, I –”

“I know, angel,” Crowley interrupted him. “You don’t – don’t have to say it.”

“As long as you know it.” The corners of Aziraphale’s lips lifted unsteadily as his hand came up to touch Crowley’s face – one quick caress over the jagged angles of his jaw, the crags of his cheekbone. “Goodbye, Crowley.”

Crowley’s chest tightened suddenly – he could barely breathe, but he managed to choke out the words somehow. “Bye, angel.”

He suddenly had a horrible recollection of a strange moment long ago, a bedroom flooded in darkness, a door slamming shut between them. Aziraphale leaving without him, Aziraphale leaving him behind, Aziraphale going somewhere Crowley couldn’t follow. He inhaled sharply, tried not to let it turn into a sob.

Without thinking, Crowley’s hand had already tugged his sunglasses from his pocket, slipping them on as quickly as he could and pushing them firmly up the bridge of his nose. He took a long trembling breath as he watched Aziraphale hand his boarding pass to the flight attendant.

For an awful moment, he hoped that there would be a problem with the ticket, maybe Aziraphale would have to take the next flight, maybe they would have a few more hours – but no, everything appeared to be in order. The flight attendant smiled politely at Aziraphale and moved on to the next passenger without a second glance.

Aziraphale hesitated before entering the airbridge. He turned to look back at Crowley and raised his hand in a small wave, his lips quivering into something like his blinding smile. Crowley raised his hand unthinkingly, waved back. His arm dropped back to his side as Aziraphale turned to walk through the airbridge and vanished from sight.

Crowley sank into an empty seat next to the enormous window, his mind curiously blank. For some time, he sat there watching as the airbridge disengaged from the plane and folded up like an accordion. The plane taxied from the hangar to the runway, awaiting some unseen signal. Finally, the airplane taxied onto the runway, faster and faster until it lifted off the ground, bearing Aziraphale away to the heavens until the plane was nothing more than a speck of light in the sky.

He looked absentmindedly down at his watch – 19:16, it said.

Just then, it dawned on Crowley that he had missed his flight without knowing it. His hand fell limply into his lap. _What now?_ He sagged into the chair and didn’t move for a long time, the sounds of the terminal fading into a buzz into his mind.

“Last call for flight BA 269 bound for Los Angeles,” a cool female voice suddenly spoke over the PA system. “Paging Mr. Anthony Crowley.”

That roused Crowley from his stupor. _What?_ He looked up at the enormous sign listing down the inbound and outbound flights from Heathrow, searching for his flight. When he found it, he saw that it had been marked “DELAYED” in large red letters.

“Paging Mr. Anthony Crowley, please proceed to Gate C62,” the voice repeated.

Crowley sighed and got to his feet. What the hell, it’s not like he had anywhere to be. Might as well get on the damned flight. He picked up his coat, pulling his carry-on luggage behind him – and in the blink of an eye, he was standing in front of a flight attendant who was looking at him with a confused expression on her face.

“Mr. Crowley?” She said tentatively. “Your boarding pass and passport, please.”

“Oh – oh. Right. That.” Crowley’s heart was beating like he’d just run at a full sprint, but his hands moved mechanically to tug his passport and boarding pass out of the pocket of his coat. He handed it to the flight attendant, his palms growing sweaty. Something was definitely going on here. His breath was coming quick and shallow through his mouth as he looked around. But no one seemed to notice anything strange – no one but Crowley.

“Mr. Crowley, here you go. Have a pleasant flight with us!”

With a shaking hand, Crowley accepted his passport and promptly dropped it. The boarding pass and a folded piece of paper fluttered out, and he shoved both back into the pages of his passport as he entered the airbridge.

Suddenly, he was buckled up securely in his seat in business class, a nearly empty glass of wine sitting next to his passport on the tray in front of him. The in-flight entertainment screen which displayed their flight progress declared that they had been en route for five hours and thirty-two minutes. Crowley’s eyes widened and he sat up in alarm. _What the hell was going on?_

He looked around at his fellow passengers. He had a window seat, and the seat to his right was mercifully empty – a pang went through him to think of Aziraphale suddenly, and how that would have been his seat if they were travelling together – but this depressing train of thought was quickly interrupted by a flight attendant asking him quietly if he’d like more wine. Crowley nodded and silently wondered if there was any way he could convince them to leave an entire bottle with him.

Unbuckling his seat belt impatiently, he sank back into his seat. No one seemed to be reacting in any way, not to him, nor to the unexplainable way time seemed to be jumping like a broken record. He took a deep breath, willing himself not to panic. He picked up his passport, but the small folded piece of paper he had picked up earlier with the boarding pass fell from its pages. That was odd – he wasn’t in the habit of leaving random bits of paper in his passport, given how much he had to travel these days. He unfolded the paper carelessly, expecting it to be a receipt of some sort.

To his surprise, he found a note, simply written in nothing but a few words:

_Mind how you go, my dear._

Crowley froze, staring down at the old-fashioned penmanship that was both unfamiliar and yet startlingly recognisable. His throat was burning suddenly. When had Aziraphale managed to slip this into his passport? He stared at the little note a long time, until the letters started blurring and he had to blink to clear his eyes. Slowly, he took off his sunglasses, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

He hated to admit it even to himself, but it was easier in the dimmed lights of the cabin. He was afraid – no, he was _terrified,_ the fear of not understanding what was going on sinking like a chill into his very bones. He picked up the glass of wine and downed it in one go, letting its warmth settle into his stomach, easing the tension on his tightly strung nerves. His fingers trembled around the piece of paper as he tried to control his breathing, tried to slow the hummingbird beat of his heart.

One blink, and a flight attendant was placing a tray of food down in front of him. He refused the wine this time, feeling too queasy to eat or drink. The speakers overhead crackled as the pilot announced over the PA that the flight was unusually turbulent, but it was nothing to worry about. Another blink, and Crowley’s tray was being lifted back into the service trolley, the food barely touched. Crowley shuddered, his fingers clenching tight around the note from Aziraphale as though it were a talisman.

The overhead cabin lights flickered, and the flight attendant looked up. She frowned and quickly started pulling the trolley back in the direction of the storage area near the toilets, when suddenly the whole plane shook violently around them. The pilot’s voice again over the PA system, asking the cabin crew to return to their seats and to secure all trolleys. The little seatbelt sign snapped on with a melodic sound, but Crowley was too wired to notice.

The man behind Crowley was murmuring, his voice shaky and breathless, the beads of a rosary dropping from his lips. “ _Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo..._ ” Kingdom come, Crowley thought wildly, as the pilot’s voice came over the PA yet again, but only a few broken words registered in Crowley’s mind – flight control problems, extra precautions, emergency landing.

Aziraphale’s note was crushed in Crowley’s fingers as he gripped the armrest, nearly wishing for Aziraphale to be in the empty seat beside him – but no, more than anything, Crowley was grateful Aziraphale wasn’t here.

Crowley shut his eyes tightly, tried to think of something to distract himself from the way the plane continued to rock up and down, his seat vibrating like a leaf caught in a storm. Anything at all to rein in the rising panic in his stomach. Suddenly, he remembered Aziraphale’s comment about having seen him at the check-in counter. How he had called to Crowley, though he hadn’t heard it.

He remembered once more the door that had slammed between them (how many lives ago was that now?), and how he had pushed it open to find his bedroom empty, sunlight spilling in through the windows. No trace of Aziraphale left but the faint outline of where they had slept together in Crowley’s bed.

Could the timer start differently for them? Crowley grabbed onto the thought like a lifeline. The cabin was deadly quiet but for the man praying behind him, and a woman sobbing quietly a few rows ahead. In the silence, each creak of the plane was deafening. Each jolt ran through Crowley’s body as he sat rigid with fear, a sick swooping sensation in his stomach as the plane began to rapidly lose altitude.

The pilot’s voice was coming through the PA again, but Crowley could no longer bring himself to listen. Whatever happened, he thought feverishly, he hoped Aziraphale had arrived at Edinburgh safely – he hoped Aziraphale would… go on ahead, just like he did before, ahead of Crowley who hadn’t seen Aziraphale in the audience until _Eurydice_ had nearly ended, or heard Aziraphale’s voice at the check-in counter, hoped more than anything Aziraphale wouldn’t hear the news of this plane crash, hoped that the next time they met, Aziraphale would have no memory of him falling, crashing and burning in this terrifying descent, _oh god if you’re out there, whoever’s listening, please keep Aziraphale safe, please don’t let him find out about this, don’t let him worry about –_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some turbulence on the flight that Crowley is on. After some time, the pilot reports that there is an engine malfunction and the plane starts descending. Crowley spends the last minutes of this life in a plane that's rapidly losing altitude.
> 
> Thank you as always to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) for the endless patience, and my ~anonymous~ beta! 
> 
> I've upped the chapter count again because there are some things I just couldn't leave out. We're in the home stretch, I promise, bear with me! Writing has been a struggle lately, but we soldier on. 
> 
> I'm working on replying to comments because spoons are so scarce these days, but thank you so much to all of you who've been reading and leaving me so many kind words - I read all of your comments approximately 87 times apiece and cry over each one. You're all so lovely, I can hardly believe it. Thank you.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	8. Interstices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley jumped at the sound of a sudden buzzing noise before he recognised it as the familiar vibration of a mobile phone on silent. Crossing the room, he bent over the pillows, digging through the bedclothes until he unearthed the mobile. It was an alarm, he saw, and it said _Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone who's been keeping up with this fic of mine - just wanted to give you a heads up before you start reading that this chapter will be a lot shorter than usual!

Crowley awoke with a loud gasp, his heart thundering in his chest. He was lying in bed – the most sinfully luxurious bed imaginable, he was almost certain the sheets were Egyptian cotton – in a room that was nearly pitch-black but for the streaks of sunlight that fell across the duvet.

He crawled out of bed and groped his way to the blackout curtains where the light was peeping through. Gingerly, he took hold of one edge of a curtain and braced himself before pulling it open.

The sunlight was shockingly bright. Crowley had to shut his eyes, holding his hand up against the glow to cover his face. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust – idiotic of him, really, he chastised himself, why didn’t he do the smart thing and let the light into the room slowly instead of all at once?

But at last, when he managed to open his eyes, still squinting against the brightness, a breath escaped through his lips in a huff. It wasn’t a window behind the curtain, but a set of large glass doors – and outside the doors lay the most verdant indoor plants he had ever seen, lush and green and flourishing in the warmth of the afternoon sun that spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Pain pierced his head sharply as his hand came up against the glass to keep himself upright. This place was completely unfamiliar at first glance, but he had a terrible eerie feeling that he had been here before. He turned around warily to survey the room and found it nearly bare but for the bed and a small round table that stood in one corner.

Crowley pulled the other curtain to let in the light completely as he walked closer to the table. It, too, was bare but for a small statue that lay in its centre – a gilded serpent with inlaid rubies for eyes, its coils glinting in the sun. Standing where he was, it seemed like its gaze was fixed on him, as though prepared to attack. A shudder went down his body at the thought.

He jumped at the sound of a sudden buzzing noise before he recognised it as the familiar vibration of a mobile phone on silent. Crossing the room, he bent over the pillows, digging through the bedclothes until he unearthed the mobile. It was an alarm, he saw, and it said _Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM_.

The mobile dropped from Crowley’s fingers, the memories suddenly rushing back into his head. The last thing he could remember was being in an airplane that was hurtling towards the ground at an alarming speed – right before he had awakened right here in this flat with its startlingly high ceiling and blank concrete walls.

There was something about today, he remembered, something about the date. Something about the time. There was someplace he had to be… someone he had to meet. He gritted his teeth, trying to recall through the aching of his head. What was it that he couldn’t remember?

And yet, even in the midst of all these incredibly strange things that were happening to him, there was an unexplainable certainty that he had been to this flat before – many times before. He should have been alarmed to find himself here, yet he was perfectly calm. Relaxed, even. But the empty, unlived-in feel made it seem as though this definitely wasn’t a place where he lived. More like a place where he would stop by from time to time, like a layover. An in-between space, neither here nor there. 

He slid the glass door open and walked over to the plants, lost in admiration. For some reason, his hands knew to carefully lift a massive leaf to reveal the bright green spray bottle that stood concealed beneath it. He grasped his fingers around the neck of the bottle and began watering the plants – muscle memory, he thought, distantly marvelling at how familiar the gesture of squeezing the handle was, the sound of each spray of fine water droplets soothing to his ears. Even the cool plastic under his fingers was familiar to him. This indoor jungle must be his, he thought as he gently held a lush green leaf between his thumb and forefinger, thinking of all the time and effort he must have put into caring for them – hang on, were the plants moving? He stared in confusion. In fact, they weren’t so much moving as _shivering._ That was… odd.

Crowley put the spray bottle down absently and turned to an enormous bare wall of unfinished concrete. Raising his hand, he pushed at the wall experimentally. Somehow, he knew that it would move under his touch, a revolving door set into motion, and he stepped into a cavernous room, empty but for a few items of furniture and décor. There was a large desk and chair in the very centre, and something that looked like a pewter vase on a pedestal in a far corner. He turned to see a black statuette of a bird to his left – and for a moment, he saw a vague impression of a figure in white, face hidden in darkness, holding the statuette in gloved fingers – a wave of pain racked his head suddenly, and he winced.

He walked across the room to see a sketch of the Mona Lisa mounted on the wall in an elaborately carved frame, an inscription in Italian across the bottom margin. He peered at it, trying to make out the words, but all he could understand of it was his own name, Anthony, and another name… Leo da V? As in _Leonardo da Vinci?_ Crowley would have laughed out loud were it not for the searing pain in his head.

Somehow, he managed to stagger his way to the chair before his legs gave way beneath him – no, that wasn’t a chair, that was a fucking _throne_ right there in the middle of the room, all plush red velvet and golden scrolls, lion paws at the end of each leg. He sank into the seat, shivering violently, bent double with his head in his hands. There was something here, something he couldn’t remember no matter how much he tried – his mind was trying to offer up something to him that he couldn’t understand – he nearly retched at the pain building in his head. He sat there until the shudders wracking his body subsided at last, leaving behind only the faintest echoes of memories that dissipated into nothing.

What was it about this place that was giving him that eerie chill? He didn’t recognise anything about it, and yet somehow, he could feel it in his bones that this was someplace he knew. His limbs knew how to move around it, navigating as though his conscious mind was nothing but a passenger in the vehicle of his body. He raised his head from his hands to see an old-fashioned answering machine next to a telephone on the table, next to a small box ornately carved and lacquered, black and red with fine gold detailing.

He pushed himself to his feet and touched the glossy cover of the box with a trembling hand, the fine grooves familiar under his touch. He found that he knew how to unlock it, his fingers finding a cleverly hidden clasp – even the click of the lid as it unlatched was a sound that he recognised, as though he had heard it many times before.

Carefully, Crowley raised the lid. There was nothing inside but a single white feather, contrasting so sharply against the fine black velvet lining of the box that it seemed to be glowing.

The aching of his head suddenly began to build as the sight of the feather triggered a series of memories, one after the other like a line of dominoes tipping over to form a pattern, falling into place faster than he could think. He remembered with a blinding clarity where he was supposed to be, where he _needed_ to be – at an antiquarian bookshop in the middle of Soho.

He turned back in the direction of the bedroom, suddenly in a hurry to get dressed and get the hell out of the flat. As he passed the revolving concrete wall, he stopped short as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass doors, backlit against the windows behind him. Rumpled curls glowing white in the sun, eyes that appeared to be somewhere between grey and blue, slightly upturned nose, mouth pressed into a frown. Black sleep pants and shirt concealed the lines of his body, solid muscle hidden under a layer of softness and curves.

But Crowley blinked – and suddenly, he found himself ready to leave, his pyjamas replaced with a dark grey shirt and black skin-tight trousers, a tailored black jacket, lapels pointing up, with a hint of bright red at the collar. There was even a pair of sunglasses in the inner pocket of the jacket. A small huff escaped his lips in surprise as he felt a mobile phone vibrating in the back pocket of his trousers. He tugged it out and squinted at the screen. It was another alarm – but it still said _Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM_.

His brow furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t this the same alarm he had turned off earlier? He looked down at his wrist and found that he was wearing a watch, its face labelled “DEVON” and covered by a crisscross of numerals in a complicated design. _2:00 PM,_ it declared, just the same as the mobile, the numbers marking the seconds moving at a measured pace – 30, 31, 32…

Crowley took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a long moment, silently counting down the seconds as he listened to the watch ticking. He opened his eyes, but the large numbers on the watch face hadn’t changed, though the seconds continued to elapse – 1, 2, 3, a steady, endless ticking.

It was still 2:00 PM.

 _Huh._ Time was… frozen? Crowley looked around at the flat once more, wondering if there was more to it than he saw. Perhaps it wasn’t so much a space as it was a gap. An interruption, a break in continuity. This was a place where time stood still, an endless minute suspended as though encased in a bubble, even as entire chunks of it went missing elsewhere.

The strange sense of clarity lingered, it seemed, for now Crowley looked at himself and saw that the face that he wore was not his. It was a face that he knew as well as his own, down to every last eyelash and laugh line, but it was a face that belonged to someone else. The face of someone that he knew, someone that he _loved._

_Aziraphale._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) and my ~anonymous~ beta for cheering me on!
> 
> I'm sorry, I know this one is much shorter than usual, but damn, Crowley needs a _breather_ before the rollercoaster that is the last two chapters. [I've finished writing the penultimate chapter! We're almost there, wish me luck!]
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with this fic. I've been so flustered all week at the thought of all of you who have been reading and commenting, augh. Sending you all my love.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	9. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few more agonising minutes, Anathema at last brought them to a stop. “Oh, Crowley,” she said, breathless with the effort of carrying so much of Crowley’s weight. “Is that him?”
> 
> Crowley managed to open his eyes just a crack – through his eyes, everything was dark and blurry but for one spot of light – a familiar head of fair hair, a silhouette in beiges and creams and blues, and relief crashed down on him with the strength of a tidal wave, its undertow pulling him under.
> 
> “Angel,” he said, and his legs gave way beneath him.

**Monday 21 October 2019, 2:00 PM**

The chimes tinkled as the bookshop door swung open and a young woman wearing a black dress with an immense old-fashioned skirt swept in with a flourish. A bespectacled fellow followed at her heels, looking rather lost. Aziraphale watched them with interest from where he was tidying up the till, for once not feeling inclined to chase them out.

The young woman started peering through the bookshelves, one forefinger moving rapidly across the spines as she went along. She was clutching an open notebook in her other hand, glancing at it from time to time. She must be looking for a particular title, Aziraphale mused to himself. The man trailed along behind her, pulling books out at random and examining them before placing them back carefully on the shelf. They would consult with each other every now and then, whispered conferences with their heads close together.

After a quarter of an hour of what appeared to be a fruitless search, during which time Aziraphale managed to sort through the drawer of the till and a small pile of receipts, the young woman finally approached, squinting at Aziraphale in a disconcerting way behind her enormous glasses. The man hovered behind her, looking as though he wanted very much to be useful but didn’t quite know how to be.

“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asked, his customer service smile firmly on his face.

“Um, yeah… Would you happen to have any books on divination?”

Aziraphale did, in fact, but no matter how fascinating he found this odd couple that had wandered into his shop, he had no intention of actually selling them anything. “I’m afraid not. So sorry.”

To his surprise, she accepted this without question. Her mouth opened as though she was about to say something, but she apparently thought better of it, and closed her mouth again.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Aziraphale said cautiously, beginning to feel rather perturbed at the way she was still staring at him.

“Actually, now that you mention it – have we met before?”

Aziraphale blinked, confused. “Oh, dear. Er, pardon me, but where might we have met before? I’m not quite sure.”

“Does the town ‘Tadfield’ ring any bells?” The young woman tilted her head at him, looking just as bewildered as he felt.

 _Tadfield?_ The name reverberated in his head, accompanied by a sudden twinge of pain.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy,” she added quickly. She had a pinched look on her face, as though she were having trouble concentrating. “It’s just –”

The bookshop door banged open as the chimes fell to the floor, the crash suddenly dissonant in the silence.

All three of them turned, startled by the noise. Another customer had wandered in, his shock of light hair a sharp contrast to the dark clothes he wore, looking slightly apologetic as he eyed the chimes that lay on the floor. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he stepped past the till towards the stranger.

“Er, sorry about that,” he muttered, his eyes still fixed on the chimes. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Not to worry. Happens all the time.” It had never happened before, as a matter of fact.

The man lifted his gaze to meet Aziraphale’s, and his eyes were swirling eddies of blue and grey flecked with green – and an electric shock passed through Aziraphale to see those eyes. The look on the stranger’s face mirrored Aziraphale’s disbelief, and they stood there staring at each for a moment before a light thud caught Aziraphale’s attention.

He turned around to see the young woman staring at both of them, her dark brown eyes wide and filled with confusion. She took off her glasses to peer at them, as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, the man suddenly stepped forward and grasped her by the elbow.

“Anathema, I think we should give them a moment,” he murmured, but it was loud enough to reach Aziraphale.

 _Anathema_. Suddenly, it was as though a veil was lifted from Aziraphale’s eyes as he looked at the young woman – why did she look so familiar? The young woman began to object, but her young gentleman very quickly managed to hustle her past Aziraphale and out of the shop, the door clicking shut behind them.

A sharp jolt of pain ran through Aziraphale’s head, and he cried out, staggering against a table for balance. The pain was so intense he screwed his eyes shut with a gasp, until finally it receded. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the brightness of the afternoon sun. When his eyes finally adjusted, he was shocked to see that the man who had entered his shop had collapsed onto his hands and knees, and Aziraphale hurried forward, his heart suddenly pounding with anxiety.

He knelt down and touched the man lightly on the shoulder. “Are you alright?”

The man took a shuddering breath and looked up at Aziraphale, and to his shock, the man’s eyes were now a peculiar shade of light brown – in the light of the sun that fell across his face, his eyes glowed like amber.

“Aziraphale,” he said, the tawny eyes searching his face hungrily.

 _Oh._ Aziraphale’s head was throbbing as he looked down at the face that he had been wearing just a few seconds ago, caught somewhere between forgetting and remembering – it was like a puzzle piece slotting into place, filling a gap he hadn’t known that was there until it was gone, a patchwork of memories stitching themselves together in his mind. Instinctive, almost like muscle memory, though he struggled to make sense of what was going on.

“Guess you might have been right about that whole reincarnation business, eh?” the man chuckled, and the sound of his laughter was like the final piece falling neatly into its place, completing the picture.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, the name leaving his lips with a breath of relief. “You’re here.” He held out his hands to pull Crowley to his feet, and almost before Aziraphale knew it, his arms had wrapped themselves around the thin frame of Crowley’s body, crushing Crowley hard against his chest. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the bookshop window – hair so light it glowed white in the sun, eyes swirling blue and grey. The person in his reflection was a stranger, but somehow, it was alright, now that Crowley was in his arms.

Suddenly, Aziraphale realised he could feel Crowley trembling minutely against him, and quite suddenly he pulled away. To Aziraphale’s surprise, his golden eyes shone with tears. “Angel, I –” Crowley shook his head and tried to laugh, blinking away the moisture. “Hell, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“‘Okay’ is rather an understatement for how I’m feeling right now, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, cupping Crowley’s face in his hands. As Crowley turned his face to press a kiss into Aziraphale’s palm, Aziraphale saw a strange tattoo etched next to his right ear, a serpent sharply drawn in black and red, its coils twisted about itself. There was a particularly painful throb in Aziraphale’s head – when was the last time he had seen Crowley with that tattoo?

“Aziraphale.” Crowley interrupted Aziraphale’s train of thought. “We need to talk.”

“What’s the matter?” Aziraphale gazed at Crowley’s pale face, noticed the grim set of his mouth.

“There’s something I have to tell you. Two things, actually.”

“Tell me,” Aziraphale whispered. To his dismay, Crowley grasped his wrists and pulled them away from his face. His hands were trembling. “Crowley, please. You’re worrying me.”

“Promise me that you’re going to hear me out first.” Crowley’s warm grip tightened around Aziraphale’s wrists before he let go, dropping his hands to his sides.

“Of course.” Aziraphale’s heart was suddenly racing in trepidation, the beat of a hummingbird’s wings caught in his ribs. Whatever it was that Crowley was about to say was clearly upsetting him. “Breathe, Crowley.”

“Okay.” Crowley took a deep breath automatically, as though steeling himself. “You remember where we last met?”

Aziraphale tried to think through the throbbing in his head. “Yes. In the airport. We… we were taking separate flights, but we met in the airline lounge.”

“But do you remember anything else other than that? Any other times you’ve met me?”

“Other times?” Aziraphale considered this. “No. Although…” His voice trailed off, memories flickering strangely in his mind, disconnected and without coherence, overlaying themselves on Crowley’s face as he stood before Aziraphale. Crowley in a rather dashing fedora. Crowley sporting a terrible goatee. Crowley with his long red mane braided down on side. He winced as another wave of pain went through his head.

Crowley nodded, looking unsurprised. “Flashes of memories, right? I don’t remember them, but you do.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Do you have those too? Memories of me that I don’t remember?”

To his surprise, Crowley balked. “I – I do. Yeah. But it’s a little more complicated for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have those too. Vague things that make no sense at all. But… there’s more than that. For me.”

“Crowley, I don’t understand,” Aziraphale could feel the anxiety building in his stomach watching how Crowley’s arms had crossed themselves around his chest, his hands gripping his own upper arms like a vice.

“Look, a – Aziraphale,” Crowley corrected himself quickly, and Aziraphale’s heart sank to hear it. Crowley had always called him angel, always, why not now? “I need you not to freak out about what I’m about to say.”

“The longer you take, the more likely that’s going to be.”

Crowley growled in frustration, his hands running through his short red hair. “Alright. I have no idea how to explain this to you, so I’m just going to say it. You remember the airport, right? Well, I remember a lot more than that.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“What I’m trying to say is that… we’ve met before. Many times before.” Crowley looked up at him, his eyes wide. “I don’t know why you don’t remember. You only ever remember the last one we had together. But I…” He faltered and bit his lip, and suddenly the rest of his words flowed out in a torrent. “I remember them. All of them, Aziraphale, and there have been plenty. Look, do you know what the date is today?”

“What?” Aziraphale was at a loss at this abrupt shift in topic. “I – I’m not sure.”

“It’s the 21st of October. Do you remember?”

And then it clicked. A sudden memory of a boarding pass to Edinburgh. “Oh. That was the day we met in the airport.”

Crowley nodded and began pacing up and down. “Each time, we meet on this day. October 21, 2019. And then when we do, it sets off a timer. Can’t say for sure how long it is. More or less about half a day.”

“What happens when the timer runs out?”

“I – I guess the world resets?” Crowley shrugged helplessly and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know how else to explain it. We get pulled out of whatever life we’re living and get thrown into another one. And then we do it all over again.”

“How many times?”

Crowley came to a halt. For a long moment, he said nothing, but Aziraphale could see his chest heaving before he shook his head. “Can’t say for sure,” he muttered.

Only then did the import of Crowley’s words sink in – the implications struck Aziraphale hard, leaving him stunned and breathless. He suddenly remembered Crowley’s strange words when he entered the shop – _reincarnation business._ What the hell was going on?

“Crowley. _How many times?”_

The tawny eyes clenched shut as Crowley threw up his hands. “A lot, alright? Ten times? Fifteen? I don’t _know._ ”

Aziraphale found himself leaning against the table for support, struggling to comprehend the enormity of what Crowley was saying. “Why – why don’t I remember?”

“Wish I knew.” Crowley wouldn’t look at him. “Took me a while to figure it out, but that’s all I know for sure.”

“Have we talked about this before?”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed. “But we’ve never really gotten around to figuring out why it’s happening, or how to fix it.”

“So when you told me about all those other times before… what did I say?”

Crowley’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Finally, as though it took him an effort, he turned to look at Aziraphale, a pleading expression in his eyes. “Aziraphale. I – I’ve never… this is the first time you’re hearing this.”

Aziraphale stared at him, feeling as though he’d just had the rug pulled out from right under his feet. For the first time, a tiny seed of doubt planted itself into his mind.

“Wait, don’t misunderstand,” Crowley added quickly, palms stretched out and reaching for Aziraphale. “It took me a long time to figure it out. S’not like I knew from the beginning.”

“But Crowley,” he said slowly. “Why… why would you keep this from me?”

A breath escaped Crowley’s lips in a huff. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. I wasn’t, I swear.” He stepped toward Aziraphale, his gaze beseeching. “I just – there was so much happening, and we never had any time, I couldn’t –”

“How do I know that’s true?” Aziraphale whispered. Fear was clouding his thoughts suddenly, he could no longer think properly, not in the wake of this appalling revelation. All those lifetimes that Aziraphale couldn’t even remember. His knees nearly buckled under the weight of it. He thought suddenly of this bookshop he loved, this bookshop that was his _home_ , the entire life that he had built for himself – how many times had he done this and had it taken away from him, without even a shred of memory to remember it by?

Crowley was still talking, but Aziraphale could barely hear him. He looked up at Crowley, but suddenly, all he could see was a red-haired stranger who had wandered into his shop. A warm touch grazed Aziraphale’s forearm, and he jerked away in shock.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, his voice barely a rasp in his throat. “I swear to God, or Satan, or whoever you want, there was _no_ _time_ for us to talk about all this!”

Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief, his senses reeling, breath growing shallow and fast in his lungs. “You expect me to believe you now after that? Crowley, those were _my_ lives, too – or whatever you wish to call them – my memories, you had _no right_ to keep that from me _–_ ”

“I know. I know, you’re right. I’m sorry. That was my mistake.” Crowley took another step towards Aziraphale. Before he could think, his body reacted for him – he took a step back, away from Crowley.

Crowley flinched. “Look, Aziraphale, something isn’t right anymore. Something’s happening. I’m missing time. I don’t even know how I got here. One second, I was in a plane and it was –” Crowley stopped abruptly before he recovered. “The next, I was banging the shop door open.” Crowley’s voice was growing more and more unsteady the longer he spoke. “And we… we switched faces just now. Bodies. Whatever. You get it, you saw it happen yourself. My point is, whatever’s happening, we have to fix it now, because –”

“Because _what?_ ”

Crowley took a ragged breath. “I don’t think we’re going to get another shot at this. Whatever it is that’s got us in this weird loop, it’s breaking down.”

“What are we supposed to do then?” Aziraphale could barely think. There was too much happening at once, and none of them made any sense. Crowley was the one person he had been certain of – and now, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“We have to go now. You have to come with me.”

“Listen to yourself. I – I don’t even know you!”

“You _do,”_ Crowley retorted, at once angry and pleading. “You have to trust me. We can fix this together.”

“Tell me how I can trust you now,” Aziraphale snapped. “After everything you said, how can I believe you now?”

“This is… this is it, angel. This is our last chance. We have to get it right.” Crowley’s shoulders curled inward as his arms came up to wrap around his chest tightly once more – only now, he looked rather as though he was trying to hold himself together. “I am actually begging you.”

Crowley looked defeated in a way Aziraphale had never seen him before, and it hurt too much to look at him. Aziraphale couldn’t think, not with Crowley’s golden eyes fixed on him like this. He turned away, unable to speak, embarrassed at how his eyes were pricking painfully.

“Aziraphale, _please._ ”

A broken sound escaped Aziraphale’s lips, but he shook his head. He was so frightened – no, he was _terrified,_ unable to process everything he’d just heard, overcome with dread at what Crowley had said, at what Crowley was proposing. To run off together without any sort of plan, with no idea whatsoever of what the outcome would be?

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale said shakily without looking at Crowley. “There must be something else we can do. Someone who can help us get this all sorted out –”

“There isn’t anyone else, there’s only you and me! You can’t seriously think…” Crowley’s voice trailed off, followed by an exasperated groan. “Fine. Have it your way, if you’re so insistent on having other people _involved_ – you stay right here, you hear me?”

Footsteps, the bang of a door, then a terrible silence.

\--

Crowley strode out of the bookshop, his hands firmly in his pockets, trying to think through the fear that was threatening to bolt his limbs in place where he stood. Aziraphale’s words were like a key fitting smoothly into a lock in Crowley’s brain, revealing a possibility that he hadn’t considered before. There was only one coherent thought in Crowley’s head now, and it was that Aziraphale was right, of course he was, the clever bastard, they weren’t going to be able to figure this out on their own. Crowley needed to find the odd couple who had been in the bookshop when he arrived, because that girl – _Anathema,_ his mind supplied helpfully – she had looked at him the way Aziraphale had. With something like certainty. Like recognition.

His legs moved on autopilot as he thought hard, racking his memory. _Anathema,_ he thought, and the pain in his head brought him the memory of a tarot card, a pair of large white costume wings held aloft with pride, strong hands efficiently disinfecting and dressing a knife wound in his leg. Another wave of pain in his head washed up a strange image, cloudy and indistinct the way all the strange flashes were – a large book bound in leather, its pages filled with… _prophecies_?

He came to a stop abruptly, blinking in confusion as he found himself in a flower market that would have taken him half an hour to get to by car. His heart sank with dread as he looked at his watch, already fearing the worst. True enough, it had been over an hour since he left the bookshop.

 _Fuck._ Crowley shut his eyes, willed himself not to panic. He took a deep breath in and exhaled through his parted lips shakily, and when he opened his eyes, he noticed a familiar dark-haired figure running out of the marketplace. _Book girl_ , Crowley remembered suddenly as he saw her, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. But for some reason, her dark eyes were wide and fearful. The man who accompanied her followed close behind with an odd assortment of dried plants under his arm, clearly trying to calm her down. They rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

Crowley took off at a run after them, dodging strangers and shopping bags and oddly shaped parcels as he went, nearly tripping over a large crack in the pavement trying to keep up with them. But as he reached the corner, he promptly crashed into another man, so strongly built it was like running into a brick wall.

He stuttered out a breathless apology as the other man held him upright. He looked up to see the diamond-hard glint of a toothy smile directed right at him. There was a hard clench in Crowley’s gut, and he wrenched himself free of the other man’s grip. His eyes could have given Crowley’s light brown eyes a run for their money – they were a shocking shade of blue so deep it was closer to violet. A face that others would have called alarmingly attractive, maybe, but to Crowley, it was definitely all of the alarm and none of the attraction.

“Whoa, there. You alright, buddy?” The man’s eyes were fixed on Crowley’s face, and the sound of his voice was a strange echo in Crowley’s aching head.

“Yeah, m’fine,” Crowley muttered, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get far, far away from this man and his voice and his eyes that sent ripples of fear up Crowley’s spine. “Just in a hurry.”

“Great!” The man’s smile grew even wider, stretching into something resembling a shark’s grin. “Gotta watch where you’re going. You might end up getting hurt.”

With a nod, Crowley mumbled something vaguely like a response before backing away and making his way down the street, a strange prickling at the back of his neck. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder to see the man’s eyes still trained on him like a spotlight. Crowley did a double take, coming to a stop and nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk – but when he looked again, the man had vanished.

Crowley shuddered involuntarily as he strode away. Yet another bizarre thing to add to the list of unexplainable things that were happening – when suddenly, he collided with another person for the second time in less than five minutes, knocking them both to the ground.

“Ow, my head....”

Crowley’s head jerked up, startled to see a dark-haired young woman bending over to pick up her glasses from where they had clattered onto the sidewalk. When she raised her head, she looked just as surprised to see Crowley.

“It’s _you,”_ she gasped. Crowley could see it in her eyes again, the light of recognition flaring up.

“Anathema,” Crowley said slowly. “Book girl.”

Anathema winced suddenly, then drew herself up to her full height – she was tall, almost as tall as he was. “You know me.”

Crowley nodded as more puzzle pieces began falling into place in his head. “And you know me.”

“You notice it, don’t you?” To Crowley’s shock, she stepped forward suddenly and grasped his arm. “Something’s happening. No one else seems to see it but me.” Her hand tightened around Crowley’s arm, and he could feel her trembling. “Tell me you do too.”

“Yeah, I –”

“Time is skipping or something,” Anathema said urgently. “I – I’ve got gaps in my memory. And there’s a _weird_ aura around everything, I can’t make sense of what it is, but –”

A hand closed around her shoulder. Crowley looked past her to see the man in glasses he had seen earlier. He was still clutching the dried plants under his arm. “Anathema. You’re stressing him out.”

“But Newt!” Anathema protested as she turned to him.

The rest of her words were lost to Crowley as another wave of pain swept through his head, and his knees buckled. When it finally subsided, he looked up to see the man holding him up carefully by the elbow, a concerned look on his face.

“You alright there, mate?”

“Newt,” Crowley gasped out, his voice grating in his throat. “Newton. I know you.”

“Alright, that’s it.” Anathema took his other arm, looking suddenly determined, and she began half-dragging him along with her, Newt dutifully following, still holding Crowley up by the other arm. “You’re coming with us.”

“What? Where the bloody hell are we going?”

“Back to the bookshop,” Anathema said in a tone that brooked no objections. “I think I know how to fix this, but everything’s in my notebook. Which I left behind when someone dragged me out of there.” She glared pointedly at Newt, who immediately began protesting.

“I did not _drag you_ out of anywhere –”

“You’re both dragging me along right now!” Crowley objected. Newt let go of his arm immediately, but Anathema seemed to have absolutely no intention of doing so.

“Look, how about an introduction? Since you already know who we are.” Newt asked, clearly trying to restore some semblance of normalcy to the proceedings.

“Crowley. Just Crowley,” he growled. “Anathema, where the _fuck_ are you taking me?”

“Dick Turpin,” she answered, and left it at that. Crowley looked incredulously at Newt, whose face had suddenly flamed red in embarrassment.

“It’s my car. Dick Turpin is my car.” He shrugged. “Do you want to know why?”

“No,” Anathema and Crowley answered at once before turning to glare at each other, identical expressions of annoyance on their faces.

\--

Aziraphale sank down at his desk with his head in his hands. He took several deep breaths before he forced himself to get up to make himself a cup of tea, nearly smashing his favourite teacup with the way his hands were shaking. He stared blankly at the kettle, suddenly at a loss. What was going on? He felt weightless, as though his centre of gravity had come loose, leaving him with nothing anchoring him to the ground. _Crowley,_ he thought distantly, the one person he had been so sure of – and now Aziraphale could no longer tell what was real from what wasn’t. He looked down at his hands in wonder, recalling how it had been so easy for him to accept the way they had _switched bodies_ , as though it was a thing that happened before. A thing that they did occasionally, like that wasn’t the wildest idea in the world.

A distant bang distracted Aziraphale from his thoughts. He had forgotten to put up the “CLOSED” sign, bugger it all. He peered from the back room to see a slight dark-haired person casually flicking through the pages of random books, dropping them back onto piles that began teetering precariously. He sighed and stepped into the bookshop.

“I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed.”

The customer turned to him, and the sight of a pair of light blue eyes set in a small pale face shouldn’t have been so alarming, but for some reason, it was. Pain pierced right through Aziraphale’s head, and when he recovered himself enough to look up, they were standing right in front of him, watching him with their head tilted to one side.

“We – _I_ was just looking. Though it seems there’s nothing to see here,” they said, and there was a strange buzz in their voice that sent a chill up Aziraphale’s spine. For a moment, there was a choking sensation in Aziraphale’s throat, as though he couldn’t draw breath, that ceased only when they turned away, looking carelessly around the bookshop. “Gone properly native, then?”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked faintly, feeling rather as though he couldn’t feel his legs.

They came to a pause near the door, and Aziraphale was incensed to see a small book under their heel. They threw a glance at him over their shoulder. “You’ve dropped something.”

Aziraphale watched as the door slammed shut behind them, sending several piles of books into a shudder before collapsing onto the bookshop floor, a scented candle tilting perilously at the edge of a table. The sudden surge of anger shocked him – adrenaline was coursing through his veins, sensation rushing back into his legs suddenly. But he had eyes only for the book that had been trodden on so carelessly. He stepped carefully around the fallen piles of books to pick up the small book from the floor.

Thankfully, the dark blue leather cover saved it from being disfigured despite being stepped on, though some of its pages were sadly dog-eared and scuffed. Aziraphale tutted and did his best to brush off the dust, but his eyes fell on an open page, filled with diagrams with strange squiggles and circles and symbols he didn’t quite understand. But the longer he looked at them, the symbols began to align with each other to make some very uncomfortable echoes in his mind, and he could no longer help himself – he began flipping through the pages from the beginning, each page covered in cramped but neat handwriting, elegant flourishes marking the y’s and g’s.

As Aziraphale turned to the last page, there was only a single line written in the same cramped hand: Revelation 13:18. _Here is wisdom._ A sharp pain suddenly pierced Aziraphale’s head, the words coming to him in almost blinding clarity. _Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666._

He opened his eyes to find himself leaning heavily against his desk, the girl – _Anathema’s_ question reverberating in his mind. _Tadfield._ That was it. The pieces of the mosaic were falling together so quickly that his head spun. He could feel it in his bones. This was the answer. Quickly he reached for his telephone and dialled a number, listening to the ringing over the earpiece, praying for an answer.

“Hello? Oh, it’s me. Aziraphale.” He listened hard for a second. “Yes, I – I realise this is rather sudden, but… do you remember before, when you said you owed me _one favour_?” There was a significant silence. “Yes, rather. I do need a ride. I’ll be there in a jiffy. And I do apologise for the rush.”

Aziraphale replaced the phone in its cradle and hurried to the door with the small notebook in his hand, accidentally knocking against a table as he exited the bookshop to avoid one of the piles of books that had cascaded to the floor. In his hurry, he quite failed to notice that the scented candle had fallen to the floor with a thud, the tiny flame igniting the pages of an open book.

\--

“Are we there yet?” Anathema demanded.

“We’ll get there when we get there,” Newt said, trying to sound as soothing as he could manage. To his benefit, he did sound reasonably calm considering how Anathema was bristling like an angry cat in the passenger seat next to him as they sat waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

Crowley sat in the back, his legs folded up uncomfortably in the tiny space, trying not to fidget and failing spectacularly. He could feel Newt’s eyes glancing up at him in the rear-view mirror, watching him with something like worry in his gaze. He rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, slumping as low in the backseat as he could manage. Suddenly, he heard Anathema gasp, and he opened his eyes to see her contorted in the passenger seat to look at him.

“Crowley,” she said urgently. “Tell me I’m not imagining things.” She jerked her head in the direction of the window, her eyes wide. “Tell me it didn’t take us a split second to get from the market to here.”

“Shit,” Crowley swore. They were in Soho, and there was an enormous billowing cloud of smoke hanging right above them. “Must be a building on fire somewhere around here. No… I could have sworn we were stuck in a traffic jam just now.”

“What?” Newt was watching them uncertainly. “Er, I didn’t notice anything…” His voice trailed off at the look on Anathema’s face. “Look, we’re nearly at the bookshop, we can grab your notebook and figure it out from there, alright?”

The beat of Crowley’s heart suddenly sped up as a wave of unexplainable fear washed over him, accompanied by a sudden throb in his head. “Fuck, _fuck,_ can you drive any faster?”

“What’s wrong?” Anathema’s eyebrows contracted at the look on Crowley’s face.

“The bloody _bookshop,_ I swear to Satan –”

But just then, Newt turned the corner, and Crowley saw it – the bookshop ablaze and billowing with smoke, a bright red-orange-yellow conflagration. His heart nearly stopped in his chest with fear.

“No, no, not again, _Aziraphale –”_

Before he knew it, he was out the door and running toward the blaze, Anathema’s voice shouting words he only dimly heard, ducking under the tape that kept the people away from the fire – and he was nearly at the door before a burly fireman pulled him back.

“You can’t go in there, sir, can’t you see it’s on _fire?”_

Crowley shook his head, fighting to extricate himself from the fireman’s grip. “No, let me go –” 

“Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” Crowley snapped. He felt as though something in him had come untethered at the sight of the blaze, nearly sending him over the edge as wave after wave of fear and panic washed over him, echoes from the past fusing with the present. This had happened before, he thought feverishly, not again, _not again, Aziraphale, where the hell are you, I can’t find you –_

“What are you _doing?”_ Anathema appeared next to him suddenly, tugging Crowley away from the conflagration with the fireman as he struggled fruitlessly against them. “We can’t be here, it’s not safe!”

“My… my best friend is in there!” Crowley shouted desperately. “You don’t understand, you have to let me _go, now!”_

“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you go in there!”

Newt’s grip was firm on Crowley’s other arm. “Crowley, I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

“Listen to your mate over there, sir.” The fireman finally let go of Crowley, surrendering him to Newt and Anathema. “Best keep him away from here,” he added in a low voice to Anathema.

In the blink of an eye they were all sitting in the car again, grimy and damp, the stench of smoke hanging heavily around them. Crowley buried his head in his hands, his eyes stinging. “ _Christ,_ this can’t be happening,” he whispered, disbelief and terror clawing at his insides, his head pounding in pain.

Anathema got out of the car and climbed into the backseat next to Crowley, shoving him over to make room for herself. “Crowley, look at me.” Her warm hand covered his own, gripping it tightly. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But we can still fix this. We’ve still got time.”

Crowley looked at her, earnest and focused as she was, and exhaled unsteadily. “Anathema, there’s no point if he’s… _gone_.”

“But if we sort this out, then he’ll be –”

He was already shaking his head before she had even finished the sentence. “Look, whatever’s happening, it’s something to do with him and me.” His throat was tightening so much he could barely force the words out. “We – we can’t _sort it out_ if one of us is gone. This was the last chance we had to make things right.”

“What do you mean, last chance?” Anathema whispered.

Crowley shrugged helplessly. “It just is. I know it. S’why we’re missing time. Things are falling apart.”

“So sorry to interrupt,” Newt said suddenly. “Anathema, your mobile is ringing.”

“Not _now,_ Newt –”

“No, I think you need to take this,” Newt said firmly. A part of Crowley’s mind distantly registered that perhaps Newt wasn’t as much of a pushover as he seemed to be after all. He caught a glimpse of the screen as Newt passed the mobile over to Anathema – _Tracy Potts,_ the name accompanied by a twinge of pain in Crowley’s head as Anathema answered the call.

“Hello? Yeah, Tracy, it’s not a very good time…” Anathema’s voice trailed off, listening hard. “Oh? Mmhmm. Yeah.” There was another long pause and her eyebrows drew together. “A dark blue notebook. Leather cover.” Suddenly, she sat up straight, one hand on Crowley’s arm. “Yes! In the bookshop!” She shook Crowley’s arm wildly as he watched her, thoroughly bewildered. “Hang on, let me start a video call…”

She pressed the camera button on the screen to start the video call and handed the mobile to Crowley, her eyes shining. “You’ll want to hear this.”

Crowley took the mobile from her gingerly, wholly at a loss as to what was going on. To add to his confusion, Anathema opened the car door suddenly. “Newt, a word?” She climbed out, not waiting for an answer, the door shutting with a bang behind her. Newt shrugged at Crowley in the rear-view mirror and got out of the car, shutting the door with a great deal more care than Anathema had.

He looked down at the mobile in his hand, watching as the screen flickered and the call connected. To his utter shock, Crowley recognised the pair of eyes that suddenly appeared, blue and grey and flecked with green, the nose that turned up just the slightest bit at the end. “Aziraphale,” he whispered. “You’re _here.”_

“Oh, this blasted thing,” Aziraphale muttered, squinting at the screen. “Never done this before. Can you hear me?”

“’Course I can hear you.” Crowley was suddenly overcome by his shock, sheer relief and happiness crashing upon him as a wild laugh escaped his lips, the moisture falling from his eyes against his express prohibition. “You sodding _idiot.”_

“I was. I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things, dear boy. Please forgive me. I panicked rather dreadfully, and it took me a good deal of thinking before I could sort it all out.” Aziraphale tried to smile, but ended up peering at the screen with his brow furrowed instead. “Why on earth can’t I _see_ you? Modern-day technology is absolutely reprehensible.”

“Never mind that, angel, as long as you can hear me.” Crowley was rather relieved on the whole that Aziraphale couldn’t see him – he wasn’t in any fit state to be seen, barely holding himself together at the seams as he was, his heart so full of joy he was certain it would burst. “Listen, we haven’t got much time left. Where are you?”

“I’m with Tracy and her husband Shadwell –”

“ _Sergeant_ Shadwell,” a gruff voice interrupted loudly, followed by what sounded like a slap and an _ow!_ in the background.

“Erm, sorry about that. The young woman with the notebook, is she there with you? She may want to hear this bit.”

“Ah, hang on.” Crowley quickly wiped the dampness off his face with the back of his hand and readjusted his sunglasses before pushing the car door open. “Oi, Anathema!”

She appeared at once, looking at him with a cautious expression on her face. “What?”

“Get in here, you need to hear this.”

She shrugged and called Newt over as she climbed into the car next to Crowley. Newt opened the door on the other side and squeezed into the backseat. It was a tight fit, Crowley sandwiched between the two of them, holding the mobile with his arm outstretched as best as he could.

“Alright, Aziraphale, we’re all here.” All they could see of Aziraphale onscreen now was mostly forehead and eyes and nostrils – he clearly had the mobile resting in his lap.

“Good, good.” The sound of pages rustling as they were turned. “Listen. Anathema, was it?”

“Yeah,” Anathema said uncertainly. “That’s me.”

“You’ve done some truly excellent research, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said enthusiastically. “You were quite right to ask me about Tadfield. That’s exactly where we need to go now. The ley lines you mapped, all your calculations, they seem to triangulate a particular spot in Tadfield. I checked the coordinates, and they all meet at this address. It’s 4 Hogback Lane.”

“4 Hogback Lane,” Newt repeated. He had produced a pen out of nowhere and was scribbling it down on his palm as Crowley watched, bemused.

“You solved it,” Anathema breathed, her eyes bright with admiration. “I’ve been working on that for so long and couldn’t figure it out – how did you manage it?”

The screen moved suddenly as Aziraphale picked up the mobile and held it up – they could see most of his face now, though it cut off somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth, the rest of his chin no longer visible. At this angle, they could nearly see up his nostrils. Crowley wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or die from second-hand embarrassment.

“A bit of luck, I think. And some things that I remembered,” Aziraphale said slowly, his eyebrows contracting. “Crowley. Can you think of why that might sound familiar?”

“What, Tadfield?” Crowley thought for a moment, the throbbing in his head building. “I – I do remember it. Somewhat. We’ve been there, haven’t we? You and me.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Anathema was there, too. And her young gentleman.”

“ _Boyfriend,”_ Anathema broke in. Newt beamed at her.

The pain in Crowley’s head was escalating, making it difficult to think. “Alright, so we meet you there?”

“Yes.” For a moment, Aziraphale stopped fidgeting with the mobile, and a strange expression crossed his face. “Quite the coincidence that Tracy knew Anathema. She recognised the handwriting in the notebook straight away.”

“Huh.” Anathema thought about that for a second. “That’s true. How do you know Tracy?”

“We’re good friends, you see,” Aziraphale explained.

“ _Best_ friends!” A voice in the background chimed in.

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched, as though he was trying not to laugh. “In any case, she tells me that you’ve been acquainted for some time.”

“Yes, Tracy introduced me to the occult –”

“That’s enough of the niceties, I think,” Crowley interrupted.

“Oh, yes. You’re going to have to get a bit of a wiggle on.” Aziraphale seemed to recollect himself. “I’ll see you there, dear boy. Mind how you go.”

“Wiggle on,” Crowley muttered in exasperation, painfully conscious of Anathema and Newt who were giving each other a particularly significant look over his head. “See you, angel.” He ended the call and handed the mobile back to Anathema, his arm somewhat sore from holding it up for so long.

“ _Angel?_ ” Anathema shrieked, as though unable to stop herself. Newt shook his head at her in warning as Crowley glared. But despite himself, his heart had begun to lift. There might still be hope, after all.

\--

“Are you feeling better now?”

Aziraphale, who had been staring down at the mobile in his hand, looked up with a start to see Tracy beaming at him from the passenger seat. “Yes, quite. Thank you for giving me a ride. You’ve no idea how important this all is.”

Shadwell harrumphed. “There better not be any witchcraft involved.”

“Oh, Mr. Shadwell,” Tracy said reprovingly to her husband before turning to look at Aziraphale. “Pay him no mind, dearie. We’re more than happy to do this for you.”

“The timing of everything has worked out rather perfectly, don’t you think?”

As Tracy looked at Aziraphale, he had that eerie feeling that Tracy could see right through him, to his very core – in some ways, he felt that she knew him even better than Crowley did, though he couldn’t put a finger on why that was. “Rather too perfectly, I’d say.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale could hardly deny that the same thought had crossed his mind.

Tracy narrowed her eyes at him. “Strange, isn’t it? A girl comes into your bookshop and leaves her notebook behind, just a few minutes before the love of your life shows up?” Aziraphale spluttered at this, but Tracy careened right over him. “And this notebook holds all the secrets of the universe, which you somehow mysteriously understand, and the first thing you do is to come to me? I somehow recognise the handwriting as belonging to my best student of all time, and when I call her, for some reason she’s got the love of your life sitting in the back of her car?”

“Yes, yes, I take your point,” Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know what to make of it, either. Should I take it as a good sign?”

“May as well.” Tracy gave him an encouraging smile. “Nothing wrong with hoping everything will turn out fine.”

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered at how she had been able to accept his explanations so quickly when anyone else would have mocked him for what, even to him, sounded like a completely delusional story.

“I can practically hear you thinking, dearie. You may as well say it out loud.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Oh. Well, you see – I was wondering why you agreed so quickly.”

Tracy laughed. “First of all, I do owe you. But more importantly, don’t you think there’s something about all this that rather feels as though… it’s happened before?”

\--

“For fuck’s sake, Anathema –”

“I’ve got this!” Anathema insisted, peering closely at the map on her mobile. Crowley scrubbed his hand over his face and leaned back into the seat, but his eyes flew open when Anathema suddenly gasped.

“What the…” Anathema’s voice trailed off as she stared out the window. She looked down at her mobile. One second, they were on the M25 bickering about the fastest route to take. And now, they were already halfway to Tadfield.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asked, confused.

Crowley heaved a sigh. “Christ, I’m glad I’m not the only one. Thought I was going mad for a while.”

“This has been happening for a while?” Anathema asked, her brow furrowing.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t as bad as this before.” Crowley was lost in thought for a moment. “When did you start noticing it?”

“Just today. And I knew something was up because this date kept coming up in my calculations. I’d show you, but they’re all in that notebook.”

“Hope you’ve gotten them right, then,” Crowley said grimly.

“Hang on,” Newt said slowly. “Is it just me, or is there, er, something coming up behind us?”

 _Something?_ Crowley turned around, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. It was _something,_ alright, and it was an enormous darkness swallowing up everything in its path, moving inexorably closer and leaving nothing behind but a void, as though the world was being blotted out.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Crowley said, his voice barely a whisper, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Yeah,” Anathema agreed, her voice high-pitched with fear. “Newt, any chance of you driving faster?”

“Maybe you should let me drive. I’ll get us there in –”

“No,” Newt said firmly. “Neither of you is in any state to drive, and I’m not having you crashing Dick Turpin.”

Crowley tried to stop himself, but couldn’t – he turned to look at the darkness that was approaching, the hairs on the back of his head standing on end to see how the world behind it simply vanished into nothing, as though the world ended where the darkness began. He shuddered, remembering all the times he and Aziraphale had been engulfed by the very same darkness – but something about this was different. There was a sense of finality about it that made his heart pound with fear, in the way that it was consuming everything in its wake.

“Anathema, how long have we been on the road?” Crowley asked urgently.

“It’s been…” Anathema looked down at her mobile, and an audible gasp left her lips. “Crowley, it’s been _three and a half hours.”_

“What?” Crowley blinked in disbelief. “How can that be? Tadfield is two hours away from London at most.”

“You’re right.” Anathema turned around to look at him, her eyes filled with fear. “Everything’s going haywire.”

“I don’t want to alarm either of you, but someone please tell me I’m seeing things,” Newt said faintly.

“What?”

“To my right.”

Crowley scooted over to look out the window on the right side, and his heart sank – the void was spreading, engulfing everything in its wake. He gritted his teeth, a hiss escaping from his throat. “Hate to break it to you, but it’s definitely not your imagination.”

“On this side too,” Anathema said, the panic noticeable in her voice as she gazed out the passenger side window.

“Anathema, how much longer before we get to Tadfield?” Crowley asked, his voice shaking audibly.

She picked up her mobile again, her fingers trembling as she swiped at the screen. “Forty-eight minutes, supposedly.”

“Newt, think you can make that twenty?”

“Erm,” Newt said uncertainly. “We can certainly try.”

Crowley groaned, but to Newt’s credit, he floored the accelerator and Dick Turpin zoomed onwards at an altogether astonishing speed.

\--

“Mr. Shadwell, you might want to go a little faster.”

“And risk getting into an accident?” Shadwell growled. “Nay, woman.”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “Pull over, dearie.”

“What?” Shadwell looked at her in disbelief.

“I said, _pull over.”_

Aziraphale tried rather unsuccessfully not to laugh as Shadwell meekly parked by the side of the road, grumbling all the while. Tracy pressed the button to turn on the hazard lights. “Now, Aziraphale, won’t you come sit here and navigate for me? Mr. Shadwell, sit in the back, there’s a love.”

Shadwell spluttered at this, but Tracy prodded at him until he got out of the car and moved to the backseat, muttering under his breath about _that southern pansy_. Aziraphale chose to ignore this, getting out of the car to sit in the passenger seat next to Tracy, who had gracefully clambered her way into the driver’s seat, adjusting the seat and mirrors with a practiced hand.

“Be a dear and tilt the wing mirror just a bit closer to the car, won’t you?”

Aziraphale dutifully rolled down the window and adjusted the angle of the mirror until Tracy was satisfied. Finally, Tracy shifted the car into gear, and they were back on the road, going much faster than Aziraphale thought possible for a Beetle of this age and condition.

“Is it really quite necessary to go so fast?” Aziraphale asked, holding onto the handle above his head for dear life.

To his surprise, Tracy threw him a sharp look before jerking her head in the direction of the rear-view mirror. “Have a look.”

Aziraphale glanced up at the mirror and gasped. There was a vast black nothingness in the horizon creeping its way up slowly into the sky, inching its way along the ground, engulfing everything it touched in darkness and leaving nothing behind. It was like looking into a black hole, a void that refused to be filled, devouring everything in its wake.

“ _Witchcraft_ ,” Shadwell gulped.

“We haven’t a minute to lose.” Tracy grimly shifted into the next gear as the car jerked forward. For some reason, Aziraphale suddenly had the sense that there was something more than metal and rubber that held Tracy’s Beetle together – force of will, perhaps, or sheer obstinacy, or maybe even something a little more than that, as he looked at Tracy’s mouth set determinedly in a thin line, her eyes flicking up at the rear-view mirror.

\--

“Anathema, how much farther?” Crowley slumped back into the seat, pulling frustratedly at his hair.

Her eyebrows lifted in confusion as she squinted at her mobile. “Twenty-two minutes…?”

“What? This makes no sense!” Crowley squeezed himself in the space between the passenger seat and the driver’s seat to get a look at Anathema’s mobile. “We should have been there fourteen minutes ago!”

“We’re not much farther now,” Newt chimed in, trying to sound as soothing as he could manage as Crowley let out a growl of frustration. “I’m going as fast as I can, it won’t take us long.”

As Crowley and Anathema bent over to look at the map once more, to Crowley’s surprise, the marker on the map jumped to a spot right on the outskirts of Tadfield, and the estimated travel time changed from twenty-two minutes to one.

“Huh, that’s weird…” Anathema said slowly. “Maybe there’s something wrong with my reception?”

Suddenly, there was a terrifying crunch of crumpling metal, and Crowley was thrown forward, hitting the dashboard with a loud thud. Anathema cried out at the abrupt stop, and her mobile flew out of her hand straight through the shattered windshield.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Crowley lay stunned, the gear lever poking painfully against his ribs, struggling to catch his breath, his heart pounding a loud drumbeat in his chest. He could feel a trickle of warmth down the side of his face where he had hit the dashboard.

“What the hell…” Crowley groaned.

Suddenly, a keening cry ripped itself from Anathema’s throat, sending a horrible thrill of fear straight up Crowley’s spine.

“Crowley! Newt – he’s _gone_!”

“What?” Crowley gasped as Anathema steadied him, pushing him upright, her hands gripping at him in fear. He turned to look in the driver’s seat – Newt had simply vanished into thin air, his seatbelt still securely fastened in the buckle.

“ _Christ,_ ” Crowley breathed as Anathema began to sob. He tried to think clearly, the pain of injury compounding with the building pressure of memory in his head as he took in their surroundings. Dick Turpin had collided with an enormous gnarled tree, and from what he could see, smoke was beginning to curl from the front of the car. “Shit. Anathema, we have to go. The car – it might catch fire any minute.”

Anathema sniffled and nodded, and they both got out of the car as quickly as they could manage, their arms about each other. They had barely managed to get a few metres away before there was a boom behind them, a sudden flare of heat, and they fell onto the ground, Crowley shielding Anathema with his arms as debris flew around them.

After a few moments, he pushed himself up unsteadily, helping Anathema to her feet. Her face was grimy and streaked with tears.

“Crowley, what’s happening?” Anathema whispered, her voice shaking with panic. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, allowing her to sob into his chest as he tried to get his bearings, the steady throb in his head continuing to build. They were in a deserted area, nothing but fields all around them, but if the map was anything to go by, they were already very near Tadfield – they just needed to find the address. Crowley could see some houses in the distance. He turned to look behind him and froze in fear.

“I’m sorry, Anathema, but we have to go. _Now.”_

There was nothing left of the highway they had driven through to get here, swallowed up entirely by the darkness – the immense black void was spreading, coming closer and closer, completely erasing everything in its wake. They had to keep going, Crowley thought grimly, as he wrapped an arm around Anathema and pulled them both forward, his head aching fit to burst.

\--

“We’re almost there,” Aziraphale murmured, consulting Tracy’s mobile. They were only a few minutes away from Hogback Lane now.

Suddenly, the Beetle’s engine sputtered and died inexplicably, much to Tracy’s consternation. “Oh, goodness, what’s happened? Mr. Shadwell, do you mind checking it for me?”

There was no answer.

“Mr. Shadwell?” Tracy turned to look at her husband and let out a shriek – the backseat was empty, no sign of Shadwell anywhere. “Aziraphale, he’s _gone!_ ”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale gasped, seeing the great inky void that had been following them from London advancing upon them at a frightening pace as the sky darkened overhead. “Tracy, my dear –” He climbed out of the car and hurried over to the other side of the car to help Tracy to her feet as she clutched at him in panic.

“Aziraphale –” She gripped his arm tightly as they went on together, arm in arm, as fast as they could manage, Aziraphale still holding Tracy’s mobile. The map on the screen was flickering, as though they were losing mobile coverage. “You and your young man better find a solution for this quickly,” she said, her voice breaking. “Otherwise, I’ll have your head.”

\--

The pounding in Crowley’s head was growing with every step they took – the sight of Tadfield was causing flickers in his mind accompanied by searing pain. Everything he looked at around him was overlaid with the memory of something else, two images on top of each other that didn’t quite align with each other. A strange sort of disconnect, as though everything in Tadfield had been rearranged just the smallest bit – everything was the same, and yet everything was completely different.

Anathema was holding him up now as they stumbled onto Hogback Lane, the pain in his head nearly blinding. His eyes were screwed shut as he fought to stay upright, one lurching step at a time. Anathema looked back and made a small sound full of fear that sent a chill right into Crowley’s bones, pulling Crowley’s arm more firmly around her shoulders as she tugged them onwards.

After a few more agonising minutes, Anathema at last brought them to a stop. “Oh, Crowley,” she said, breathless with the effort of carrying so much of Crowley’s weight. “Is that him?”

Crowley managed to open his eyes just a crack – through his eyes, everything was dark and blurry but for one spot of light – a familiar head of fair hair, a silhouette in beiges and creams and blues, and relief crashed down on him with the strength of a tidal wave, its undertow pulling him under.

“Angel,” he said, and his legs gave way beneath him.

\--

Aziraphale heard his voice, barely more than a breath carried by the wind, and he turned sharply, just in time to see Crowley collapse onto the ground, a dark-haired young woman kneeling next to him.

“Tracy, they’re here,” Aziraphale whispered, hardly able to believe his eyes.

“Go, go to him!” Tracy pushed him forward, and he stumbled for a moment before he found his footing, and when he looked up again, the young woman was gone – there was only Crowley lying prone on the ground, dried blood streaked over the snake tattoo on his face. Aziraphale gasped to see the strange void of darkness advancing steadily, very near now, eclipsing everything but the little house that stood a few metres away. He rushed to Crowley, and one of his arms went around Crowley’s back, and the other under his knees, cradling the fragile lines of Crowley’s body against his chest as he got to his feet, grunting with exertion.

He could feel the darkness now as though it were a tangible thing, as it blotted out the sky above and lapped at his heels, his heart dropping like a stone when he realised that Tracy, too, had disappeared into thin air – he carried Crowley to the little house on 4 Hogback Lane, the only thing that was still standing in the midst of the black void that surrounded them both. The gate stood ajar and Aziraphale pushed it open, and he staggered to the front door, panting with fear and exhaustion, to see a young boy with a mop of brown curls standing there, a spotted black-and-white dog by his side, and his clear blue eyes gazed at Aziraphale expectantly.

“You’re very nearly late, you know.” The boy spoke in the imperious tone of an eleven-year-old confident in his knowledge of his world and everything in it. He turned and walked into the house. “Come on, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay. Life has been HAPPENING and it's been exhausting. Thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who's been reading and commenting. You guys are keeping me alive. 
> 
> Quick update: LAST CHAPTER IS WRITTEN. Just need a little more time to edit, but at least it's all out there and I hope to have it out soon! I can't believe we're nearly through.
> 
> Thank you to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) for beta-ing this TWICE, and to my ~anonymous~ beta who somehow still managed to make time to read this and yelled at me the whole way.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


	10. The Feeling of Knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The light faded, a familiar outline forming. Crowley’s mouth dropped in shock. It was Aziraphale, dressed in the same fussy old-fashioned clothes he always wore, but his eyes were burning, blue and grey, gold and green all at once. It hurt to look at him too long, like looking at the sun. He had wings, Crowley saw with disbelief, enormous white wings that glowed with an inner light. Aziraphale had always been beautiful, but now he was incandescent, his wings spread wide towards the heavens, looking for all the world like an – 
> 
> “Angel?” Crowley said, his mouth dry. “Holy shit. Is that you?”

Aziraphale entered the house, his arms beginning to ache with the exertion of carrying Crowley, trying not to knock his head or his limply dangling feet on the furniture. Outside the windows of the small house, there was nothing but total darkness, an eerie stillness settling over everything, the silence absolute but for the scrape of Aziraphale’s feet on the floor, his breath coming in small huffs through his mouth. The boy guided them through the house, his little dog padding silently at his heels, past the sitting room and the kitchen to a backdoor that Aziraphale thought might have led into a rather large backyard, had it not been blotted out entirely by the void. He shuddered and clutched Crowley tighter to him.

“Where are we going?”

The boy turned and fixed his clear gaze on him – for a moment, Aziraphale felt as though he were being x-rayed, as though this boy could see right through to the very essence of him. A sharp pain dragged through his head, and he nearly lost his hold on Crowley.

“You – I know you.”

The child nodded as his dog circled around once and lay at the floor at his feet. “My name’s Adam.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, the name sparking intermittent flashes in his mind, each one like a bright spot that hurt to look at too closely. “Hello, Adam. I don’t suppose you could tell me what’s going on?”

Adam was still gazing at Aziraphale, looking a little puzzled. “Something’s happened to the two of you. _They’ve_ interfered, and it’s made time go…” He cocked his head, thinking for a moment. “I don’t know what to call it. Anyway, they’ve definitely broken something, and it’s made the world all wrong. I don’t think they even know something’s gotten messed up because they tried to do something they weren’t supposed to. Like the people who invented nuclear reactors, you know,” he added suddenly, nodding solemnly to himself. “Those should never have been made.”

“ _They?”_ Aziraphale barely understood a word. “Who are they?”

“I think it’ll be better if you find out for yourself. I could explain it to you, but you probably wouldn’t understand.” Adam smiled at him comfortingly. “Don’t worry though, it’s not your fault.”

“How do I do that?” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley stirred in his arms, a small groan escaping his mouth. His forehead was deeply furrowed as though in pain.

“I can only give you a little while, alright? Better be quick about it.” Adam glanced at Crowley for a second, a serious look on his young face. “This is hurting him a lot, and I don’t know how much more he can take.” A sudden chill ran through Aziraphale’s veins at his words.

“I’m sending you back to the beginning. He took us there before.” Adam nodded at Crowley. “So I remember the way.”

“The beginning?” Aziraphale echoed, utterly confused. “What do you mean?”

Adam stared at Aziraphale for a moment, as though considering him. “I think you’ll remember when you get there.” The little dog raised its head, suddenly alert as its master reached for the knob to the back door.

“Are you ready?” Adam asked.

“I – I suppose,” Aziraphale said, alarmed. He had no idea what was going on, and what in Heaven’s name was this child talking about? What would he remember when they got to the beginning?

To his surprise, Adam smiled at him again. “You’ll be alright.” The little dog barked and wagged its tail. “I can’t go with you, because I have to hold the door open,” Adam continued. “So come back quickly.”

Aziraphale nodded. There was nothing for it – they were out of options, out of time, and no one but Adam left. Even Crowley was almost lost to him now. His arms tightened protectively as he held Crowley closer to him.

“Here we go, my dear,” he whispered, though he knew Crowley wouldn’t hear it. Adam took a deep breath, as though bracing himself, and opened the door.

\--

Aziraphale opened his eyes to find himself in under a clear blue sky, white dunes in every direction as far as his eyes could see, the glare of the sand nearly blinding under the heat of the noontime sun. For a moment, sheer relief washed over him, leaving him completely relaxed. As though this desert existed outside of time and space – nothing existed here but himself and Crowley. He readjusted his grip, cradling Crowley close to his chest.

In the distance, he could see a spot of verdant green, looking thoroughly out of place in this sea of shimmering sands. Aziraphale headed in that direction, each step slow and careful, shoes crunching on the sand. It was almost unbearably hot, and before long, sweat was running in rivulets down his back, drops trickling down his face.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale lowered Crowley to the ground to remove his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, before stripping Crowley of his jacket and turtleneck sweater with unsteady hands, until Crowley was down to his undershirt. Aziraphale took his light blue shirt and draped it carefully over Crowley’s head, shielding him from the worst of the sun before lifting Crowley back into his arms with a grunt. He winked the stinging saltiness out of his eyes and walked on, leaving their clothes behind in the sand.

The spot of green grew larger as Aziraphale neared, and he saw now that it was an enormous tree, its leaves gleaming under the brightness of the sun. On and on Aziraphale went, nearly out of breath with the heat, his mouth uncomfortably dry. Crowley was still motionless in his arms, though he would occasionally stir, small movements on his face that made Aziraphale think of someone who was trapped in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up, and it troubled him greatly. _I don’t know how much more he can take._ Aziraphale flinched and his pace quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the remembrance of Adam’s words.

Finally, finally they reached the dappled shade of the strange tree, and Aziraphale nearly collapsed onto the sand, his knees giving way beneath him. He lowered Crowley to the ground as gently as he could, propped up against an enormous root, covering his torso with the blue shirt.

For a few minutes, Aziraphale lay slumped next to Crowley, trying to catch his breath, every inch of him aching with exhaustion. Now that they were here, Aziraphale realised as he looked up that the tree was _colossal,_ magnificent and breath-taking and looking as though it was at least several centuries, maybe even millennia old – he’d never seen anything like it before anywhere in the world.

There was a strange sensation in Aziraphale’s head of something slotting together in a perfect fit, realigning where things had fallen out of sync. He could feel a strange humming all around him, resonating deep in his chest, so strong it was nearly a tangible vibration. He got to his feet shakily, stumbling over the roots that poked out from the sand, the humming increasing the closer he got to the tree’s gnarled trunk. Before long, his legs gave way – he tripped and fell onto his hands and knees, but he pushed on, crawling his way through the tangle of roots.

When at last he reached the trunk, gasping with fatigue, to his surprise he saw a tiny shrub growing at the foot of the tree, the expanse of roots making a small space in the ground, encircling the shrub as though to protect it. It was heavy with fruit, bright red and enticingly ripe, a sweet aroma filling the air. The scent struck Aziraphale hard, jarring more strange images loose in his mind – glittering black and red scales, the faint glimmer of fire on the horizon of the desert.

Suddenly, a terrible voice echoed in his mind. _Thou shalt not eat of it,_ and a burning pain swept through Aziraphale’s head – he crumpled to the ground, eyes squeezed tightly shut, every muscle trembling with fear and exhaustion. There was a dreadful cacophony in his mind, memories piling up lightning-quick one after another, threatening to pull him under. The sunrise in the east, a gate sealed shut, the roar of a lion. He tried to fight the pain in his head, the strange voice in his head that was holding him firmly restrained, but he couldn’t – it was too much, _too much_ , overwhelming him in an agony of scent and memory and defeat –

A hand clapped itself firmly onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his eyes flew open with a sharp inhale as he turned around.

“Aziraphale, get up.”

The lines around Crowley’s eyes were tight with exhaustion, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered in shock as Crowley’s arms gave out – Aziraphale just barely caught him and lowered him against an enormous root as his eyes fluttered, struggling to stay conscious. “You mustn’t – you’re already –”

“No,” Crowley muttered through clenched teeth. His red hair was matted with sweat, falling into his eyes. “Together, angel, you and me.”

He cried out suddenly, his body tensing with pain. Aziraphale saw with a sudden chill of horror that Crowley’s face was white as a sheet, his breath coming in slow, uneven gasps through his lips.

“Stay here,” Aziraphale said pressing a hand to Crowley’s chest, terrified at how soft his heartbeat seemed to be – Aziraphale could only just feel it beating under his touch. “You mustn’t move anymore, please.”

“No,” Crowley growled, and made to get up. Aziraphale relented, seeing his obstinacy, and tugged Crowley’s arm around his shoulder, putting his arm around Crowley’s waist. With the last of Aziraphale’s strength, he pulled them forward until they were kneeling before the little shrub with its red fruit.

“This what we came here for, then?” Crowley mumbled, an odd smile tugging inexplicably at the corner of his mouth, his head heavy on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “All this trouble for a piece of fruit?”

“I – I suppose so, yes.”

Aziraphale raised a hand and reached forward – but suddenly there was a stabbing pain in his head. _Thou shalt surely die_ , the terrible voice in his head echoed, and every muscle in his body froze, unable to fight what felt like a fear that ran bone-deep and held him in place.

“Angel,” Crowley said quietly, “Let me do it.”

“No.” Aziraphale swallowed hard, his throat unutterably dry. Crowley had done enough, carried much more than he should have of this terrible burden that Aziraphale should have shared. His hand trembled as he reached forward and grasped the fruit, the rind hard and smooth beneath his fingers, and twisted it free of its branch.

They stared at it for a moment, the little round fruit that sat in Aziraphale’s palm.

“So,” Crowley finally said, his voice barely a rasp. “That wasn’t as exciting as I thought it was going to be.”

A huff of laughter left Aziraphale’s lips unexpectedly, despite the pounding in his head. “I feel rather as though we were in _Alice in Wonderland.”_

“Fruit bush in the middle of nowhere with a sign that says ‘Eat Me’ on it.”

“Quite sure the sign says ‘Don’t Touch,’ as a matter of fact.”

Crowley winced. “Think you might be right.” He allowed Aziraphale to prop him up against a tree root that jutted out from the sand, leaning on it heavily, his face drawn and exhausted. “Have we gone mad, you think?”

“Whatever this is, at least we’re having the same dream. Hallucination. Whatever you wish to call it.” Aziraphale considered the little fruit. For all it appeared so delicate, its rind was surprisingly tough. He took a deep breath – exhausted as he was, it took all the strength he had left to break it open until it lay in two halves on his palm.

The fruit had no flesh, but rather contained pockets of tiny seeds, glistening brightly with sticky juice. It reminded Aziraphale of a pomegranate, but like no pomegranate he had ever seen before. This fruit seemed almost unreal in its perfection, its delicious aroma unbearably enticing – but everything about it screamed a warning at Aziraphale. _Thou shalt surely die,_ again and again in his head. _Thou shalt surely die._

 _And what of it?_ Aziraphale thought savagely, looking up at Crowley’s pale face, the golden eyes barely open, suddenly desperate to spare Crowley whatever agony he was enduring. Aziraphale raised the little fruit to his lips and scraped the little seeds onto his tongue, juice running down his chin.

\--

Suddenly, it was as though the world was illuminated by an unbearable brightness.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut tightly against the blinding explosion of heat and light, his arms held over his face. _Aziraphale,_ he tried to shout, but though his mouth moved, there was no sound – the whole world had gone completely still, and the silence was so absolute that it pressed painfully against Crowley’s eardrums.

For a few moments, Crowley shivered with fear and terror for Aziraphale, but he no longer had the strength to move, nor could he open his eyes – but then there was a touch on his face, warm and dry and so light he wasn’t quite sure if he had only imagined it.

A voice spoke his name into the silence.

_Crowley._

The sound of it sent a shiver down his back, the hairs on the back of his head standing on end. There was something he couldn’t identify humming in the air around him, electric and alive and reverberating in waves straight through his body.

 _Crowley,_ the voice said again, and there was something about it this time that sounded oddly like a laugh. _Do not be afraid._

Crowley shielded his eyes with a trembling hand, squinting against the brightness. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the brightness, but his mind could barely comprehend what he saw. Eyes, eyes everywhere, eyes that saw into his very soul, and the sound of beating wings, an unspeakably bright glow, wheels of golden light. Crowley was frozen with terror – though something about that presence was oddly familiar, if that could even be said about something that was clearly not human.

_Crowley, it’s me._

The light faded, a familiar outline forming. Crowley’s mouth dropped in shock. It was _Aziraphale_ , dressed in the same fussy old-fashioned clothes he always wore, but his eyes were burning, blue and grey, gold and green all at once. It hurt to look at him too long, like looking at the sun. He had _wings,_ Crowley saw with disbelief, enormous white wings that glowed with an inner light. Aziraphale had always been beautiful, but now he was incandescent, his wings spread wide towards the heavens, looking for all the world like an –

“Angel?” Crowley said, his mouth dry. “ _Holy_ _shit_. Is that you?”

“It’s really me, Crowley.”

He cowered as Aziraphale approached, suddenly afraid. Aziraphale hesitated, then held out his hand to Crowley. In his palm was the other half of the little fruit he had eaten.

“I know I have given you reason to distrust me.” Aziraphale’s mouth suddenly quivered, Crowley saw with surprise. “More than you know, time and time again. But I will ask you now to trust me, just one more time.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale gazed at him soberly for a long moment. “You’re going to remember, Crowley. You’ll remember what happened to you. To us.”

“Will I turn into…” He flapped a hand at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s face suddenly darkened. “No. You won’t. You – you aren’t an angel.” He took a shaky breath, as though to brace himself. “Not anymore.”

Crowley laughed. He could hardly believe any of this was happening. Truth be told, he was wondering if he would wake up at any moment to realise that he was only dreaming. “Oh, yeah? What does that make me, then? A demon?”

To his surprise, Aziraphale flinched. Crowley’s heart sank like a stone, and he shook his head. “No. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

Aziraphale’s fingers fidgeted at his waistcoat. “Crowley, I – I wish I could. But I can’t.” He looked up at Crowley, the lines around his eyes tight. “We’re not human. But we were… _made_ human. I didn’t even think that was possible.”

“Aziraphale… are you telling me if I eat that, I’m going to become an actual demon? As in a demon from _Hell?”_

“Yes,” Aziraphale said simply.

Crowley blinked at him for a moment. “Why exactly would I want to go back to being a demon?” These were all purely theoretical, he told himself. He was going to wake up any moment now. This was just a dream.

“It’s who you are. Not this.” Aziraphale’s face was distressed. “Everything that’s happened, it’s putting too much stress on your body.”

“That so?” Crowley’s lips turned up at the corners. “No wonder I feel like shit.”

“Crowley, please. Be serious. Your body as it is now, it can’t handle the strain of all your memories.” Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “It’s hurting you because you remember too much. You remember much more now than I did when I was human. If you don’t eat this, you’ll –” Aziraphale’s voice broke suddenly.

“Die?” Crowley asked, so far beyond bewildered now that his brain seemed to have decided that there was no point in thinking about how realistic this entire conversation was. “Wouldn’t that be preferable to being damned?”

This turn of events had clearly not occurred to Aziraphale. He seemed at a loss, and his hand fell to his side, his wings folding up tightly against his back. “Of course I wouldn’t ask you to – not if you didn’t want to,” Aziraphale whispered at last, his face crumpling. “If you would… _choose_ to stay human. I would respect that.”

Crowley knew it, no matter how much he wanted to pretend it wasn’t real – he could feel his limbs growing leaden and numb. It would be so easy to simply shut his eyes, to fall into the darkness and let go, but something in him was clinging onto this life out of sheer stubbornness. He thought of all his lives, all the time he had lived simply waiting until he found Aziraphale again, everything he had endured for Aziraphale’s sake – and he realised suddenly that it must have been Aziraphale that had kept him alive all this time, throughout every life they had.

“’Ziraphale,” he whispered. Maybe it would be worth being a creature of Hell, if only he had his angel with him. “If I eat, will you stay with me?”

Aziraphale’s head lifted as he gazed at Crowley, his face suddenly twisting in anguish. “Crowley, you hardly remember anything from before. You don’t know if you want that, you don’t know what you’re _asking_ –”

“I know it,” Crowley interrupted him, his eyes pricking. He swallowed, tried to keep his voice steady. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, angel. All this time.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, his eyes wet with tears. “You don’t _know_ that.”

“Think it’s the only thing I’m sure of that’s real.” Crowley inhaled sharply as another wave of pain racked his head, and suddenly Aziraphale was at his side, pressing Crowley’s hand to his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I promise.” The tears were running freely down Aziraphale’s face now, and his eyes burned even brighter than before. “Always, I’ll stay with you.”

Crowley gazed at him, trying to smile. But he could barely move now. With all the remaining willpower he had, he forced the words out through his numb lips. “Then I’ll eat.”

He was slipping in and out of consciousness – the last thing he saw was Aziraphale, his eyes wide as he bit into the fruit – Crowley felt a gentle hand on his jaw, soft lips pressed to his own, the tartness of fruit on his tongue.

Suddenly, Crowley was cast into the darkness.

There were no words to describe what was happening to him. He was in his body, and yet he was outside of it, watching it unfold – felt an otherworldly force flow through his body, burning straight through his veins – he was destroyed, every atom of him ripped apart – and yet something pulled him from the ashes, reforming him into something new. His very being thrummed with power, forged anew in fire and flame. As his body was restored, he felt his memories pouring back into him into the vessel of his mind. Every moment of an existence that went far beyond such things as time or space – it felt as though he had been blinded but had not known it until the moment he was allowed to see.

Where his human mind had been unable to hold all his memories, overflowing to the point of destruction, now, he could remember. The terrifying agony of Falling, of burning, of the pieces of his former self put back together, roughly twisted and lengthened into something unholy, _upon thy belly shalt thou go,_ the moment he was ordered to make some trouble, slithering up an unbelievably high wall to find an angel looking into the distance.

_Angel._

The memories came fast, six thousand-odd years of a strange relationship of one step forward, five steps back, a face that always softened into incredible joy to see him, a voice that denounced him not ten minutes later. Holding him at arm’s length, not a step nearer.

They averted the Apocalypse, somehow. They switched faces.

The choking sensation of divine power wrapped around his throat. _I don’t care if I lose myself, as long as I get to keep you._

How strange to be in this form, and yet to still remember what it felt to be human.

Lives upon lives upon lives. Aziraphale sitting next to him on a bench in a garden. Aziraphale enjoying his breakfast – nothing unusual, but he was wearing Crowley’s face. A portrait done in oils of Aziraphale gazing at him solemnly from the canvas. The sound of his own name in a bitten-off moan ripped from Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale wearing Crowley’s face, holding an ice pack against Crowley’s shoulder. Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around his waist, the scent of jasmine tea in the air. A white umbrella held above his head. A hand raised in goodbye at an airport.

Those were all real, Crowley realised, floored at the idea of how many years he had spent being human – his wings spread reflexively, stretching wide into the air, and Crowley sighed in relief. He understood now what he had been feeling all that time – phantom pain from the wings he had lost, compounded by the limits of a human mind, the frailty of a human body.

And yet there was something strange. Something about him wasn’t quite the same, as though something of Crowley had gotten lost along the way. He couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was, but it was difficult to think of it in the sheer relief of this moment. No pain whatsoever. Only a sense of being whole once more.

 _Crowley,_ a familiar voice said suddenly, breaking his reverie. _Crowley._

 _Time to leave the garden,_ Crowley thought drowsily, and at last, he opened his eyes.

\--

Aziraphale nearly wept aloud when Crowley’s lashes fluttered, and he quickly raised a wing to shield Crowley’s eyes from the sun. Golden eyes gazed up at him, slitted pupils marking Crowley for the serpent he once was.

“Oh, my dear,” he breathed, his breath catching in his throat with relief.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said, blinking at Aziraphale as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “S’it raining?”

“You old serpent.” Aziraphale laughed wetly, so overjoyed he could barely breathe as Crowley’s hand came up and brushed the tears from his cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

Crowley hesitated, then held his hand before his face, examining it closely. “Great, actually,” he said at last. “What the hell just happened?” He sat up and there was a sharp intake of breath that immediately alarmed Aziraphale.

“What is it? Are you alright?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face in confusion. His tawny eyes were wide and full of a wonder that was almost childlike.

“Angel, look.”

Aziraphale, who had only had eyes for Crowley the entire time, turned around and gasped. They were no longer in a desert – they were in a vast green expanse, trees and plants flourishing in rich soil, blooms and fruits and leaves covering every last inch as far as the eye could see.

“Crowley, are we –”

“In the Garden,” Crowley said, his voice quiet with wonder.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled slowly – for indeed it was the Garden, and he recognised it as surely as though it had only been yesterday that he had shut the Gate behind him forever when he was ordered to watch over the exiled humans.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley said slowly. “What did we just _eat?”_

“You should know that better than anyone.”

“We eat the fruit and we know good and evil?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “We _are_ good and evil.”

“Not when we were human, we weren’t,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “Or maybe the part about having our eyes opened is what’s more significant?”

Crowley sighed and unfurled his wings, ink-black against the brightness of the sky, the wind rippling through the feathers. Aziraphale watched, momentarily transfixed. In the light of the sun, the feathers were iridescent, shimmering with colour.

“Stop ogling me, angel,” Crowley said dryly, his mouth twitching. “We aren’t done yet.”

“No, I suppose we aren’t,” Aziraphale said, his brow furrowed, too distracted to properly formulate a response to Crowley’s jibe. Aziraphale could feel it now, something almost like a shudder running through the air. “I think we need to go back. Adam’s waiting for us.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Crowley hesitated for a moment. “You ready?”

Aziraphale took one last wistful look around at the Garden where it had all begun, with a sharp twinge of regret for the angel and demon he and Crowley had once been, unencumbered by the millennia that they had between each other now.

For a split second, a wild thought occurred to him – maybe they didn’t have to go back.

He looked at Crowley and saw his own longing reflected on Crowley’s face, though he was looking away, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. He could stay here with Crowley, in the eternal, ageless Garden, no walls now but the shifting sands of time.

Finally, Crowley looked up, and his face softened to see the look on Aziraphale’s face. “I know, angel. Me too.” To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley held out a hand to him, and he took Crowley’s hand, warm and rough in his. “But we should go back, don’t you think?”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale murmured, his hand tightening around Crowley’s. There was a whole world waiting for them. “Time to leave the Garden.”

Crowley’s eyes widened for a moment at Aziraphale’s words, and his grip tightened around Aziraphale’s hand. “Brace yourself, now.”

He raised his other hand, a look of intense concentration on his face, and snapped his fingers –

And suddenly they were stumbling through the backdoor into the kitchen in Adam’s house, the little dog barking joyously, bounding around them in excitement as Adam quickly shut the door.

“It worked!” Adam exclaimed, a bright smile on his young face as he looked out the window, where sunlight streamed through the pale blue curtains in the kitchen. There was no sign of the heavy darkness that had blanketed the world they had left behind. “I was starting to get worried.”

“Were we gone long?” Aziraphale asked, when suddenly a clock chimed. Their heads automatically turned toward the sound.

“2:00 PM,” Crowley said, his voice hoarse as he pulled a mobile out of his back pocket. “October 21, 2019,” he said aloud.

A thought occurred to Aziraphale. “Isn’t that the day the Earth began?”

“Huh. You’re right.” Crowley laughed shortly. “God’s always had a hell of a sense of humour.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said reprovingly.

“I don’t want to be rude, but we’re not done yet,” Adam interrupted. He motioned toward the front door. “I think we’ve got some other people on their way, if you’re ready to meet them.”

\--

Crowley could smell it in the air, a sulfuric whiff of smoke followed by a sharp flash of ozone. A sensation beneath his feet of the earth shuddering, an inexplicable flash of lightning outside the window, visible even in the broad daylight.

“They’re here,” he muttered to Aziraphale. “Come to finish us off, you think?”

Adam turned to look at Crowley over his shoulder. “I don’t think they’d try again,” he said, though he sounded somewhat uncertain. “You’ve got to show them that yourselves, though.”

He walked to the front door, unlatching the locks and bolts and pulling the door open for Crowley and Aziraphale. The little dog bounded out before them, yapping loudly at their heels. Crowley’s heart was pounding in his chest, bile rising to his throat at the thought of whatever was waiting for them outside the door.

Suddenly, a warm hand fell on Crowley’s arm, and he flinched. Aziraphale jerked away as though rebuffed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“Nah, s’alright,” Crowley said gruffly. “Bit on edge, that’s all.”

“Me too,” Aziraphale sighed. “Come on. We’re going to have to face it sooner or later. Face them, rather.”

Crowley nodded, his jaw clenched, and stepped over the threshold. The afternoon sunlight was bright, warming him despite the chill in the wind. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from the ether and put them on, just as two figures came into view – one tall and strongly built, the other slight and hunched over. The recognition was immediate, and adrenaline quickly kicked in, coursing through him hot and electric, bracing himself for whatever was coming.

But to his surprise, Aziraphale stepped in front of him, wings spread wide before him. Crowley was momentarily distracted – he never noticed before that Aziraphale’s feathers were tipped with gold. Had they always been that way? He was nearly certain that they had been pure white before. His eyes flicked up to see that Aziraphale’s gaze was fixed on Gabriel, who was approaching the fence with his patented toothy smile firmly on his face.

“Do you know what you’ve done, Gabriel?” Aziraphale asked levelly. Crowley could only see part of Gabriel’s face, his view obscured by Aziraphale’s wing, but he could see how Gabriel’s eyes hardened, the wide smile dimming by a few watts **.**

“What do you mean?” Gabriel chuckled a little too loudly. “Look, whatever just happened –”

“That’s not the point,” Beelzebub snapped, interrupting Gabriel midway. He looked at them, affronted. “What did _you_ do? There was no way you should have been able to undo that!”

“To undo what?” Aziraphale asked in the same flat tone. “Whatever it was you did, the fact that we were able to undo it at all means that you did something wrong, don’t you think?”

Gabriel’s smile faltered. “Wrong? How could we have done something wrong?”

“That izzz… impossible.” The buzz slipped from Beelzebub’s lips in their confusion. “The Antichrist must have undone it. It’s the only explanation.”

“Not really,” Adam piped up, peeking from behind the expanse of Aziraphale’s wing. “Wasn’t me this time. But he’s right, you know. You _did_ mess something up. I bet you didn’t even notice anything strange. So much has been happening right under your noses and you didn’t even know.”

Something clicked in Crowley’s head. The shifts in time, their changing faces, all of those things had something to do with the moment that they had their immortality taken from them.

“You didn’t know, did you?” Crowley said slowly, comprehension dawning. The curse, or whatever it was, had been completely botched by the fact that they hadn’t been in their own bodies. A grin was spreading across his face. “You had absolutely no idea all this time.”

Gabriel looked completely lost. “What in Heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“We’ve heard enough of your prattling,” Beelzebub spat. A rush of demonic power in the air was all the warning Crowley had before Beelzebub spoke again.

\--

The word that left Beelzebub’s lips reverberated in the sudden silence and its power hung in the air – an ancient unholy word that Aziraphale had never heard before, a word that sent a terrible crawling feeling along his spine.

“No!”

Shocked by the cry behind him, Aziraphale whipped around to see Crowley falling to his knees as though he was being dragged down by the neck by some unseen force, his sunglasses falling from his face and landing with a sharp crack on the ground as they shattered. Aziraphale gasped and knelt next to him, and struck by a sudden terror, Aziraphale looked up at Beelzebub, who was smirking.

“You’re certainly a demon again,” they said mildly, advancing towards the fence to watch Crowley struggling. “You’re still one of _ours._ ”

Aziraphale curled his wings over Crowley, hiding him from their sight, fury building in him. “He is _not_ yours,” Aziraphale snarled. _He’s mine,_ he thought desperately. _We’re on our side. You can’t take him from me._

Beelzebub ignored him. “Come here, Crawly. Don’t make me say it again.”

“No,” Aziraphale whispered, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist, trying to hold him back even as a force dragged him forward an inch at a time. “Crowley, you _can’t._ Don’t listen to them.”

“Doing my best here, you know,” Crowley growled through gritted teeth, his face screwed up as though he were struggling intensely. Another inch forward on his hands and knees.

“You have to fight it,” Aziraphale said urgently, his arms tightening around Crowley, but he too could feel the echo of Beelzebub’s power pulsing in the air, leaving Crowley helpless against it. In Aziraphale’s desperation, he tried to reach for his own power, to somehow protect Crowley from whatever it was that was pulling him forward little by little, but before Aziraphale could move, Gabriel was tutting.

“Don’t even think about it, Aziraphale,” he said brightly. “Don’t make me do anything you might regret.”

Crowley’s breaths were coming in loud huffs as he fought to keep from moving, unable to even get up on his hands and knees. “I can’t, Aziraphale.”

“You can.” Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him. “You _have_ to.”

“Crawly!” Beelzebub’s voice rang sharply through the air, and Crowley cried out, his hands curling tightly into fists, his fingers digging into the dirt. _Thou art cursed, upon thy belly shalt thou go._ In the wake of Crowley’s old name was a frightening buzz, like an echo of words that were unspoken, but Aziraphale nevertheless heard. _Dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life._ Aziraphale gasped, the words of scripture twisted into something horrible and blasphemous in Beelzebub’s mouth.

“Come here,” Beelzebub said in a tone of finality.

 _Crowley’s curse,_ Aziraphale thought desperately. _There must be a way to break it._

“Fight it,” a small voice spoke up behind them suddenly. “You can do it.”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Antichrist?” Crowley snarled.

“You can,” Adam insisted. “But you have to believe it.”

Aziraphale froze suddenly, all the events of the past few hours rushing through his mind in rapid succession. Crowley as a human, dying slowly in his arms. Crowley agreeing to eat the fruit, knowing what he would become.

But could he really become a demon again?

“That’s _enough_ ,” Beelzebub said, their face contorting in irritation. They opened their mouth, but the word seemed to be coming from around them, pressing against Aziraphale’s ears painfully. An awful sound ripped from Crowley’s throat as he was dragged bodily forward, pulling Aziraphale along with him.

“Wait!” Aziraphale cried out. “Wait. You can’t do this.”

“And why couldn’t we?” Beelzebub spat as Gabriel looked on, nodding emphatically in agreement.

Aziraphale suddenly thought of Adam’s words. Crowley could do it. But Crowley had to _believe it._

“Because he can’t be damned again,” Aziraphale said slowly, the realisation dawning on him. “Not the way he was before.” He looked behind him to see Adam smiling.

“Not again, young man,” Gabriel stepped forward now, looking indignant. “We’re not going to let you interfere with this a second time!”

“Say it again,” Adam said to Aziraphale, the clear blue eyes fixed on Aziraphale firmly with something that seemed like certainty.

“Shut your mouth!” Gabriel bellowed. 

“He can’t be damned again,” Aziraphale said loudly, and a moment of wild courage overtook him. “Not even the Almighty could do it.”

Gabriel gasped. “How dare –”

A short laugh escaped Crowley’s lips as one of his arms came to wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’re too bloody clever for your own good, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed in relief, tugging Crowley against him and pulling them both to their feet, his wings shielding Crowley from view once more as he leaned heavily against Aziraphale. “My turn this time to do the saving, I think. Can’t let you have all the fun.”

“No,” Beelzebub whispered. “That’s… impossible.” They lifted their head and spoke the word a third time, and it reverberated so loudly that Aziraphale’s ears rang and his skin crawled with the force of the demonic power behind it.

“That’s not my name,” Crowley’s voice grated out. “Not anymore.”

“You can’t just refuse to be who you _are,”_ Beelzebub snarled. Gabriel stood behind them, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, completely stunned.

“My name. I’ve changed it.” Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale, swaying a little on his feet. “That’s not my name. Hell has no hold on me. Not anymore.”

Beelzebub was apoplectic with rage. “You are the _Serpent –”_

“Oh, I’m definitely still that, I think,” Crowley said, pulling a pair of sunglasses out of the firmament with a twist of his hand and putting them on. “What I am not, Beelzebub, is _yours._ I do not belong to Hell. Do you understand?”

Adam’s laughter rippled out from behind them. “You tell ‘em, mister.”

Beelzebub started forward, but Gabriel held them back.

“What are you then?” Gabriel’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You can’t just – _stop_ being a demon –” Aziraphale noticed that the violet eyes flicked uncertainly in Beelzebub’s direction.

“You did that all on your own, though.” Adam said, his voice startlingly forceful. “Wasn’t it you who made them human?”

Gabriel was stammering now. “W-well, technically we only –”

“You’re not supposed to do that, either. You can’t just turn people human,” Adam barrelled on. “Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

Gabriel flinched. “Young man, you have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Not all of it, maybe. But enough to know that you were interfering with something you shouldn’t have been, and now that everything’s been put right, everyone will know what you did.” Adam shrugged.

Aziraphale had to smile at Adam’s easy confidence. It wasn’t every day you heard the archangel Gabriel being put in his place. “Quite right, Adam.”

“You _dare_ speak of interfering, boy?” Beelzebub said menacingly, their voice buzzing sharply. “When you yourself –”

“Oh, I didn’t do anything,” Adam said, and smiled beatifically. “They did it all by themselves, you know.”

\--

Crowley had no idea what happened after that, exhausted as he was from the day’s ordeals. The next thing he knew, he was lying in bed staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. He sat up suddenly, a moment of panic overtaking him before a pair of hands were gently pushing him back down onto the pillow.

“Angel,” he mumbled blearily, blinking up at Aziraphale. “Where are we?”

“It’s all right, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pulling the blanket back up over him. “We’re at Jasmine Cottage in Tadfield. Do you remember?”

“’Course I remember.” Crowley winced, feeling a strange soreness in every inch of his body. “What’re we doing here again?”

“Adam took us here. It’s only been a few hours.” Aziraphale settled into a chair next to the bed. “Anathema and Newt live here, apparently.”

“Huh.” Crowley mulled this over for a moment. “Everything’s… gone back to normal then?”

“It does look like it, yes,” Aziraphale answered cautiously. “Though I’m still not entirely sure what happened.”

Crowley stared at the ceiling, sifting through what he remembered. There was no pain now that came with remembering, and each image was clear and sharp in his mind, everything from the last six thousand years – and now, with all the human lives in between. “I remember now,” he said wonderingly, surprised at how easy it was now that he was back to being… what was he? He raised a hand up to his face and gazed at the palm, then the back of his hand, flexing the fingers slowly. His body back just as he remembered, without any of the human encumbrances that he had lived with for so long.

“I suppose that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It must mean things are really back to the way they were.”

Crowley grunted, noncommittal. He couldn’t think about that just now. Aziraphale looked at him sharply. “How are you feeling?”

There was certainly something different about how Crowley was feeling. Lighter, somehow. Untethered, but not entirely in a bad way. He couldn’t find the words to describe it. “Dunno,” he finally said. “Not quite the same as I used to.”

“That was your true name, wasn’t it? That Beelzebub spoke?” Aziraphale said in a hushed whisper. “But you were able to fight it, Crowley – don’t you think there’s something strange about that?”

A shudder ran through Crowley at the recollection. True names carried an unbelievable power. He had not heard his own name spoken in millennia, and it had been terrifying to hear – it had left him stripped naked, reduced him to the bare bones of his most vulnerable, innermost being. But Crowley had to admit the angel was right. It should have been impossible for him to go against the will of the Prince of Hell, and yet – “Strange, yeah,” Crowley mumbled. “You said… you said.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “You can’t Fall a second time,” he said slowly. “That’s what I thought.”

Crowley couldn’t wrap his head around it. It was a thought too large and right now, too frightening. He’d deal with it later. Possibly when he could have a quiet meltdown somewhere no one can see. “Mm. What does that make me now, you think?” He asked lightly.

“I don’t know, really,” Aziraphale sighed. “Adam doesn’t know either. I thought he might, but he doesn’t.”

“Strange kid, eh?”

“No, actually.” Aziraphale’s lips lifted up at the corner. “He’s very much like any other human child, Crowley. Very bright and inquisitive for his age. If it weren’t for that way that he can just…”

Crowley understood completely. “Like he can see right through you, yeah?”

“Exactly.” Aziraphale considered this for a moment. “I suppose there must still be some remnants of his power lingering.”

“Must be. He did take us to the Garden.”

Aziraphale nodded. “That was rather a shock.”

“I’ll say." A breath left Crowley’s lips sharply. "Which reminds me.”

“What is it?”

“Your wings.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “What about them?”

“Well…” Crowley tried to find words for what he wanted to say. “They’re not quite what they used to be?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale seemed lost in thought for a moment. “No. I suppose they aren’t.”

They were silent for some time. When Crowley turned his head to look at the angel, he saw Aziraphale gazing at him with a strange look on his face. Crowley thought he could identify it in pieces – the wobble of Aziraphale’s lip that meant that he was worried, the crease of his forehead when he was thinking hard about something, the disbelief in his wide eyes. But that was what confused Crowley, Aziraphale’s eyes, blue and green and grey all swirling together in a storm of emotions he couldn’t place.

“What’s the matter?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it, as though unable to find the words.

“Out with it, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stood up and walked rather quickly to the little window, looking out. Crowley could hear Adam’s voice from the garden as he laughed with Anathema. “I – I don’t know. Crowley, I still don’t quite understand everything that happened, but it does seem as though things have gone back to the way they were. Before we switched.”

“Think we’ve been switching a few times over the years, angel.” A hard lump rose to Crowley’s throat suddenly, and he swallowed, staring up at the ceiling again. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet. “Before we… became human. Everything went back to the way it was after the Armageddon that wasn’t. It seems as though something like that has happened again.”

 _Back to the way it was._ Crowley exhaled, stuffing the sharp wave of disappointment back down. It was fine, he reminded himself. Back to the way it was would be preferable to being human, stuck repeating the same day over and over with different iterations of himself and Aziraphale. Better than the endless cycle of finding each other and being separated a few hours later. But those few hours that they’d had in between…

Crowley’s jaw tightened. He wondered if Aziraphale remembered now. He wondered if Aziraphale would ever say anything about it, if he did. Crowley took a deep breath, willing himself back to something resembling calm before he looked at Aziraphale again.

He was still standing by the window, gazing outside, seemingly lost in thought. In the golden afternoon light, he seemed to be glowing, his thoughtful face lit softly by the sun.

And in spite of everything, Crowley smiled – he’d found his way to Aziraphale every time, in every life, just like he’d promised he would, and now here they were. They had time.

\--

Aziraphale put the phone back down gently in its cradle, marvelling at the familiarity of it. Everything in the bookshop was just as he remembered – he hadn’t had the chance to see it again after all the chaos that ensued in the wake of the not-Apocalypse, and every single thing about it made him shiver with joy. Home at last, after everything that had happened.

Home, and yet something was missing. Or _someone,_ if Aziraphale was being honest with himself. He paced back and forth in his backroom nervously for a few minutes, debating internally with himself and rehearsing a few words in a whisper. He fidgeted with his bow tie in front of the mirror, tried to press down his unruly curls back into place before he remembered that he could just… use a miracle now. With a snap of his fingers, his hair was in apple-pie order, his bow tie straight and perfectly knotted. Some habits were hard to break, it seemed, after being human for so long.

But now Aziraphale rather wished that he had simply fixed his hair himself the way he always did even before he had become human, because now there was an absence of things to fidget with, and he was growing more and more nervous by the minute. He stared at his kettle for a moment, torn between wanting to make a cup of tea and settling down and rearranging all his books by hand in reverse alphabetical order just to have something to _do,_ when quite suddenly, the bells of the bookshop’s front door chimed.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, bracing himself, before stepping out of the backroom and into the bookshop with a bright smile on his face.

“Hello, Cro –” Aziraphale began, before seeing that it was simply a customer who had wandered in, looking a little bewildered at the teetering stacks of books piled up on a table. “Oh, dear.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, but we’re quite definitely closed.”

“But your sign says that –” The customer began protesting weakly as Aziraphale chivvied him out of the shop and locked the door behind him, flipping the sign to “CLOSED” with a loud sigh.

“Well, that wasn’t very angelic of you.”

Aziraphale started and turned around just in time to see Crowley step out from behind a shelf, smirking. “Oh, Crowley,” he breathed, the beating of his heart suddenly accelerating at a speed that would have put a hummingbird’s wings to shame. “Where did you come from?”

“Came in when that poor chap did,” Crowley said with a grin, gesturing with his chin at the door. “Before you bullied him right back out the door.”

“I did _not_ bully him,” Aziraphale protested.

“Hmm,” Crowley said, and the familiar sound of his amusement struck Aziraphale suddenly. How long they had waited, how much they had endured to get here. He couldn’t help himself – he beamed at Crowley.

“What’re you so looking so cheery about, angel?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and steeled himself, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty palms on his sweater as Crowley bent down to examine a little figurine on one of the tables. _Take it all from me, as long as he won’t be hurt,_ Aziraphale recalled his own words suddenly, his throat tight.

“Everything back the way it was, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale agreed absently. “Quite. Erm.”

“What?” Crowley was watching him, his head cocked to one side.

“Well, that is – I rather thought I might tempt you to a spot of lunch,” Aziraphale said in a rush, his fingers twisting together nervously. “At – at the Ritz.”

“The Ritz,” Crowley repeated slowly.

“Yes.” Aziraphale stepped closer, his heart caught somewhere in his throat. “You see, I – I recall we had meant to do that. And it seems that today, a table for two has miraculously come free.” He took a breath, embarrassingly loud in his ears. “So I’ve made reservations. Under my name. If you remember. If you want.” He was rambling, but he couldn’t seem to stop, though all the words he had rehearsed so carefully seemed to have made a dramatic stage exit. “But I remember how you feel about eating, so if you would rather do something else, I completely understand. I know it must seem a bit silly now –”

A warm hand suddenly closed around Aziraphale’s fingers that had been worrying at a button on his waistcoat.

_Oh._

He glanced for a moment at Crowley’s hand wrapped gently around his, and he looked up to see that Crowley’s dark glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were wide and golden to the very edges. A wild rush of courage filled Aziraphale, and he turned his hand over so that their palms met, lacing their fingers together, trying to remember how to breathe through the wave of joy that suddenly came crashing down on him when Crowley’s grip tightened around his hand.

“Temptation accomplished, angel,” Crowley said quietly, and his face broke into a smile that Aziraphale had only ever seen when they were human – a smile that was soft as starlight and overflowing with happiness, finally unburdened of the weight of the six thousand years that they carried, the weight of all the lives they had lived. There was so much they still had to talk about, but now they had time. All the rest of eternity to be by Crowley’s side, just as he had promised.

And somewhere in Berkeley Square, a nightingale started to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done. I can hardly believe it. 
> 
> Thank you to [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offgray) for tolerating me always, and my ~anonymous~ beta who has been relentlessly cheering for me. To [Jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) who has yelled at me every step of the way. To [Ashfae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae) and the endless cycle of mutual admiration. To everyone in the Get It Write server who has been so encouraging. WILD. The real journey was the friends I made along the way, and all that. God, I love all of you. You all held my hand and got me out of quarantine alive. Thank you.
> 
> I've decided to put this work as part of a series because I want to write a little more about what happens to them after this. (Also you may possibly get the original ending I intended for them.) You can subscribe to it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954087)! 
> 
> You guys. This is insane. Let me gush about it for a bit longer because this is the last one. You're all unbelievable. Thank you for being such amazing people. 
> 
> I've got a couple more projects in mind coming up, so I hope to see you around again then? Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


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